


Noire

by waypoint



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-03-01 16:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13298337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waypoint/pseuds/waypoint
Summary: AUSameen Shaw, veteran of World War II, spends her days working as a private detective in New York City. She tries to maintain a low profile as she solves cases while battling her own personal demons.  Shaw's world is turned upside-down when a mysterious woman enlists her help on a seemingly simple assignment.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Please enjoy this short introductory chapter to my fic.
> 
> Taking place in New York City in 1947, we follow detective Shaw as she accepts a job from a strange woman, which ends up being much more than she bargained for. As she struggles to overcome hurdles both personal and professional, Shaw must tread carefully to avoid being caught in the orbit of some dangerous criminals.

 

 

_January 7 th, 1947_

 

 

New York City has fallen into it's post-holiday gloom, and this stretch of cold weather, snowfall, and darkness is enough to throw everyone into a rut. Sameen Shaw, the WWII Marine turned Private Investigator, is not immune to whatever ails this town. The holiday's previously had little impact on Shaw's life, being occupied with medical school, the Marines, or the war, and since returning to the United States, and enduring the loss of her partner Michael Cole, she wasn't interested in the holiday spirit.

 

Mere days ago, Sameen found herself ignoring the people who paid for her detective services in favor of spending her night in the back of a bar. Her large and frequent intake of alcohol during the month of December was more than even her high tolerance could handle, and she found herself blacking out, only to wake up in a hospital days later. The medical staff informed her that if she continued treating her body this way, she would be dead before the end of January.

 

Shaw had some choice words for her doctor, but the added intervention of her friend, Officer Joss Carter, made her consider changing her ways, at least for now. Although no amount of nagging could convince her to attend any sort of therapy or meeting related to her "problem", she was trying to get herself back on track on her own terms. Today was her seventh day without a drink.

 

After New Years, Shaw was trying to maintain routine that would keep her mind occupied with work, and not the drink. Each day she went to the same diner, located a short distance from her office on the Lower East Side, for coffee and breakfast. She then walked one block to a nearby market to purchase her Luckies, before heading to work for the day, and in most cases, the night as well. If there was no pressing work keeping her the night, Shaw would sometimes visit the 24h fitness center near her apartment to lift weights before retiring home. The heavy snowfall made the trek difficult these last few days, but she managed.

 

Today Sameen reached the office later than most days. She walked down the hall towards her door, hands stuffed into her overcoat pocket, thankful for it's long length protecting her legs from the cold. Shaw grasped the bronze handle on the door with her name on it, and stepped into the room. She decided to leave the lights off, as the large window to her right provided sufficient light through the blinds for the time being. She removed her hat and overcoat, brushing the snow from the fabric before hanging them up on the coat stand next to her door. Shaw reached into the inner pocket of the dark blazer she wore, wrapping her fingers around the pack of Lucky Strike she purchased this afternoon. She stepped towards her medium sized desk situated in the middle of the room, and flicked on the lamp sitting on the corner, meanwhile she drew a cigarette, then returned the package to her pocket. The cigarette sat between her lips as she pat her pockets looking for the metal lighter, finally feeling it in the waist pocket of her blazer. Sameen flicked the top of the lighter back, bringing the flame to the tip of her cigarette, before she shut it with a flourish of her hand. She returned the lighter to it's pocket, then removed her jacket, draping it over the back of her chair.

 

Shaw sat down with a groan and leaned back, sucking on the end of the cigarette, pausing, then blowing the smoke up into the ceiling. She stared at the motionless ceiling fan as the smoke was carried upwards. She sat forward and glanced around the office; she's facing her door now, her name backwards from the inside. Directly in front of her desk is a single chair, when she needs to meet clients in person. To the right is a small couch, for the days a short break is needed. Beside it, a door to a very small bedroom for when she requires a more lengthy rest. On her left is a large window with horizontal blinds across the glass, as well as a small end table that housed a crystal decanter and drinking glasses. A few days ago it was filled with brown liquid, now only water remained. Sameen takes another drag from her cigarette before plucking it from her mouth and placing it on the edge of the ashtray on her desk.

 

Also on her desk is her small lamp and telephone. A square block of paper with **01-07-47** typed on it, a metal shield identifying her as a private investigator, and various folders containing her case files. Shaw also has a small black leather notebook, which she uses to scribe details if she's working in the field. She got into the habit of carrying the notebook shortly after the war ended. When she and Cole came home they often talked about enrolling in the police academy. Good notes closed cases, he'd tell her. Now, however, becoming an officer wasn't of interest to her.

 

Shaw shook her head, returning her thoughts to present and to the case she was attending. A woman by the name of Diane Hansen, met with her several days ago and reported that her expensive pearls had been stolen. Why the she contacted a private investigator instead of the police was a mystery, but Shaw didn't care as long as she was paid. She spent the next several hours compiling a list of possible suspects: the housekeeper, the husband, or the client herself. Shaw also made several phone calls to local pawn dealerships, and other more shady fences she knew of, to check if the item had been seen or talked about. She paced around the room while waiting for one of her contacts to return her call. She lit another Lucky, poured herself a lifeless drink of water, loosened her necktie, and looked out the window. She watched as the sun went down, noting that the snow covered buildings still provided an eerie illumination on the streets and in her office.

 

The telephone on her desk rang sharply. She walks back, snuffing her cigarette in the ashtray and lifted up the receiver. “Hello?” Shaw's voice was low, raw from a combination of not speaking and inhaling smoke all day.

 

On the other line was Mrs Cole, her former partner's mother. Shaw sent money to his family, when she could. Whether it was to help them cope with the loss of their son, or because of guilt she carried, she wasn't sure. She felt some responsibility for what happened, but Shaw couldn't tell if that was the same as feeling guilty. Either way, the conversation was short and she soon placed the handset back on the cradle. Sameen sank into her uncomfortable chair with a sigh, leaning her head down against the wood of her desk. She shut her eyes for a minute as her mind drifted.

 

 

>

 

 

_She and Cole were back from overseas, wanting to enroll in the New York City Police Academy, along with another solider they had become friends with on the trip home, Joss Carter. A few weeks after they had filled out the appropriate paperwork for their application, Shaw and Cole were walking outside when they heard commotion and shouts coming from a nearby home. Springing into action, the pair burst into the home to find a woman lying among broken glass and an overturned dining room table._

 

“ _What happened?” Shaw asked as they approached her. Cole knelt next to the woman, helping her up into a sitting position._

 

_She didn't say much, either she was afraid or stubborn. Luckily, they didn't need to be police officers to deduce that her husband had struck her after an argument. The beginnings of a purple bruise on her cheek was evident of that. The woman glanced at the large French-style door that lead into a yard when Shaw heard the revving of a motor vehicle engine._

 

“ _Shaw, wait—” Cole started, but she was already bursting through the door. In the distance she could see the vehicle coming from the garage attached to their home. Shaw ran onto the gravel, drawing the Colt M1911 pistol from her trouser pocket, and pointed it at the oncoming man. He showed no signs of stopping, so Shaw fired two rounds into the hood of the car, and two more into the windshield. She kept squeezing the trigger until her gun merely clicked back at her._

 

_The motor vehicle filled her vision, and Shaw braced herself to be struck when she felt her body be roughly shoved to her right. She hit the gravel hard, the unexpected movement caused her to flop like a rag doll. Shaw's ears were ringing from the impact that her head made with the ground. She reached up to hold her skull, attempting to stand up, hearing a faint thumping sound. She managed to raise herself to her hands and knees, however the nausea from the blow to her head overwhelmed her, and soon she was face first in the dirt again. Sameen exhaled, the dust blowing forward with her breath, and her eyes slipped closed._

 

 

>

 

 

The thumping sound she heard moments ago returned, only this time it was louder, clearer. Someone was knocking on her door. Sameen sat up, having apparently fallen asleep on her desk, and tried to rub the stiffness from her neck, only to find it slick with perspiration. Her office had become dark, obviously several hours passing since she laid her head down. The light from the streets is entering her office in horizontal lines created by the blinds across her window. Shaw opened her mouth to call to the visitor and send them away, but only a ragged cough escaped her lips.

 

The person stops knocking and for a moment Shaw was relieved, but then the door opened. The light from the hallway is bright, causing the person to be only a silhouette. It is a woman, clearly. Tall, thin, with a tight skirt clinging to her legs, coming to rest snugly against her calves. Her coat rests above her knees, covering her torso with dark fabric. She walks slowly, sauntering, really, towards the window. Her heels are clicking on the wooden floor.

 

“We're closed,” Shaw managed, her voice coarse from sleep and scratchy from coughing.

 

“You don't look like you can afford to turn down work.”

 

The woman's voice is smooth. It's low, but there is a delicate edge to it, hidden underneath. She moves to stand by the window, the lines of light across her body. Her hair appears to be dark, ringlets cascade down the length, the ends just touching her shoulders.

 

Shaw stands up, “what do you want?”

 

“Many things, detective,” the mystery guest replied. “For starters, how about a light?”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes, seeing that the woman has a cigarette in her hand. Rather than take the lighter from her jacket pocket, she pulls open one of the desk drawers, reaching for a book of matches. Shaw stands and approaches her, realizing that she is several inches taller than Shaw herself. The woman turns her face, light revealing only patches; brown eyes, red lips, skin smooth like a pearl. Shaw strikes the match and holds it between them.

 

“You got a name?”

 

The woman takes Shaw's hand in her own, wrapping fingers around her mostly closed fist. They are thin and cold, with tips painted black. She is wearing a large ring on her middle finger. Set in the ring is a stone, the color of which Shaw cannot identify in the low light. She pulls the match to the cigarette, now resting between her red lips. The flame illuminates her face, painting the pale white skin in a golden glow. The woman is beautiful, this much is obvious. Her lips are thin, with a prominent cupid's bow, and there is a freckle on her cheek, though faint. Her eyes were the color of honey, hidden beneath long eyelashes as she lit the end of the cigarette, flames reflecting in her eyes. Shaw shook the match out as the woman inhaled a breath, pausing before blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. She holds the cigarette between two fingers, the smoke being carried up to the ceiling.

 

“You can call me Root.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping by!
> 
>  
> 
> Here's an ad for Shaw's preferred brand of cigarettes  
> 


	2. Golden Earrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw accepts the job from Root.

 

 

_January 7 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Shaw's meeting with the mysterious Root was strange, to say the least. She barged into Shaw's office with the intention of hiring her services, and wouldn't take no for an answer. Root wasn't even the client, not really anyway. A friend of hers was apparently stuck in a difficult situation with her employer and needed someone to act as mediator between them. Root was incredibly vague about the details, saying that Shaw should meet with her friend to learn more. Since this was definitely not the kind of work she wanted to take on, Shaw was ready to send her away when Root took an envelope from her coat pocket and tossed it down on the desk. Shaw eyed it quizzically, though she could guess what was inside.

 

“A down payment,” Root supplied. “You'll get the other half after you've helped my friend.”

 

Shaw looked back to Root, trying to get a read on her, and the other woman seemed to be doing the same. Root carried herself with high levels of confidence, it seemed. The way she relaxed into the chair across from Shaw's, legs crossed delicately at the ankles. Overall, Root was very intriguing. After a minute of sizing each other up, Root broke the eye contact first, taking the final drag from her cigarette before extinguishing it in Shaw's ashtray.

 

Shaw took the paper envelope in her hands, flipping it open to see five one-hundred dollar bills neatly inside. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, hearing Root breathe out a quiet laugh. Sameen caught the edges of a smirk when she looked up again.

 

“As I said,” Root began, “you'll get the other _half_ afterwards.”

 

It was quite a lot of money. Although Root hadn't mentioned what sort of work she, or her friend, was involved in, this amount of cash wasn't something she could easily turn away. Shaw folded the envelope closed, and placed it inside the top drawer of her desk.

 

“Fine, I'll do it,” she nodded, voice level. “How can I reach her?”

 

Root's smirk returned, only this time it was unsettling. She rose from the chair across from Shaw. “Go about your day as usual, detective. My friend will meet you at Dot's tomorrow morning.”

 

She didn't want to ask how Root knew the way her days usually went.  The fact that she knew the name of the diner Shaw liked to eat at was quite disturbing. Root turned to leave, her heels loud against the wooden floor. The light from the hallway stretching her shadow longer as she walked further away.

 

“Hold on a second,” Shaw started, “you haven't told me your friend's name.”

 

Root paused, placing her hand over the door knob. She half turned her head back towards Shaw.

 

“Hanna Frey.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

_January 8 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

Shaw eventually returned home after her unusual evening, stripping down and heading straight for her bed once she arrived. She was plagued with dreams almost immediately, once again seeing herself and her partner respond to the cries of a woman in need. She sees herself racing outside the home, drawing her gun, and staring down the car of the assailant. She sees Cole follow behind her, arriving in time to shove her out of harms way. Shaw is then standing outside the hospital room days later, when he eventually succumbed to his injuries. Both his parents cried while she remained a statue, unmoving and unaffected.

 

When Shaw wakes up again, it's sudden and jarring, her body coated in a layer of sweat. Waking from a nightmare this way causes her heart to beat so rapidly that the sound is loud enough to overpower everything else. She shakes her head, attempting to settle her breathing while pushing the memory from her mind. Eventually, the remnants of her dreams fade, only to be replaced by thoughts of the bottle of rye she keeps in the locked drawer of the desk in her office. Or the gun in the unlocked one. Her skin began to itch, and her body twitched with a sudden restlessness.

 

Shaw quickly removes the blankets covering her legs, and steps towards her bathroom, the cool air in the small bachelor apartment seemingly amplified by the sweat on her skin. Sameen turns the tap on and lets the cold water cover her hands until the skin becomes painfully numb. When it becomes too much to bare, she turns the tap off again and tries to bring balance back to her mind. She spots her wrist watch is sitting on the counter, the hands reading 7:41AM, and decides that now was as good a time as any to begin her day. Her eighth without a drink. Not that she was counting.

 

After she'd showered and dressed in a black suit, accompanied by a dark tie and suspenders, she finds her gray overcoat and removes the envelope from Root. Taking two hundred dollars and stuffing the bills into her trouser pocket, Shaw then places the envelope in a lock-box that's kept under a loose floorboard next to her bed. Also in the box is a few hundred dollars in cash, a small medal given to her after the war, and ammunition for the Model 10 Smith & Wesson in her office. The decision to keep the firearm separate from the bullets was an intentional one, as there were some nights she could not trust her actions with a loaded gun. Once the lock-box was secure under the floor again, Shaw tied her hair back in a pony-tail, collected her coat, black hat, and left the apartment.

 

Snow had continued to fall throughout the night, and the ground was covered in a fluffy later of the stuff. A few inches it seemed, and Shaw's foot sank with every step, the powder crunching with satisfying noise. Weather like this made her thankful not to be driving, she thought, as she made her way down the street. She had a couple of stops to make before breakfast, but luckily her apartment was situated in such a way that most of her errands were in reasonable distance. No matter how close Shaw drew her overcoat, however, the wind still seemed to pierce through it, and she found herself walking with a hand on her head to keep her hat from being carried away. Perhaps she should invest in a scarf of some kind as well.

 

Finally reaching her first destination, Shaw stepped into the bank to have her newly acquired cash broken down into smaller, more manageable bills. She considered going to the market, but upon examining her pocket to find a nearly full pack of Luckies, she figured the trip could wait another day or so. This particular market also had alcohol for sale behind the counter, along with their variety of tobacco, and the thought of all that wonderful amber liquid so _easily_ available made Shaw's throat feel dry and her cold hands suddenly sweat in the palms.

 

She stopped walking, hands fumbling to find the inside pocket of her overcoat, pulling the aforementioned package of cigarettes free. Shaw ducked into an alley in order to shield herself from the wind and snow, and produced a metal lighter as well, immediately flicking the lid back. She plucked a single smoke from the package, returning it to the proper place, and held it between her lips. Shaw took a long drag, filling her lungs until the burn was unbearable, she then exhaled slowly. She stood with her back against the frigid brick for several minutes, the cigarette now resting loosely between her limp fingers. A few puffs later, she felt herself calm. Shaw flicked the butt into the alleyway, turning to venture into the street once again, when she saw a young girl standing and watching her. She was small, perhaps twelve years of age, with curly blonde hair sticking out from under her cap. She wore a light gray waistcoat, with ragged looking shoes that were not appropriate for winter, and olive green colored slacks, complete with patches on both knees. The small child also carried a satchel that appeared to be filled with paper. They regarded each other for a moment until the girl spoke:

 

“Smoking's bad for you,” she'd said in her high pitched voice.

 

“So is talking to strangers,” Shaw replied, walking by the girl and back onto the street.

 

“Hey,” the small voice called to her. For some reason Shaw turned back around. “Wanna buy a paper?”

 

There was no need, as the diner which Shaw was currently heading had newspapers for free, but perhaps it was her recent fortune that tilted her generosity. Shaw took two one-dollar bills from her trouser pocket, holding it out to the girl. “This enough?”

 

The girl's blue eyes widened with excitement, and her curly head bobbed forward several times. “Yeah!” She'd said, pulling a bundle of paper from her satchel and holding it out to Shaw. She took the newspaper, _The New York Inquisitor_ , and tucked it under her arm. Touching the tip of her hat, Shaw nodded to the newsgirl and turned, finally making her way to breakfast, and hopefully a meeting with her new client.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Shaw arrived at the diner after a few more minutes of walking in the snowy streets. Named _Dot_ after it's owner, Shaw had eaten here almost every day since she returned from Europe. She hung her hat and overcoat on the tall hooks near the door, walking towards the empty space at the booth in the corner and sat down. Although she preferred to sit at the counter on most days, a booth would be more appropriate if she was to be meeting someone. As a formality she glanced at the menu until a familiar waitress approached, coffee pot and mug already in hand. She was petite, though perhaps a little taller than Shaw herself, with blonde hair tied neatly back in a pony tail and eyes the color of the sky. She had been working in Dot's almost as long as Shaw had been a customer. Shaw had learned that the waitress, Sally, was originally from Texas and took the diner job to help pay for college here in New York City.

 

“Hey there Sam,” she said, placing the cup down and filling it. Her light voice held it's usual hint of a southern accent. “What are 'ya havin'?”

 

Shaw folded the menu and placed it aside. “Banana today.”

 

The waitress nodded, scribbling on her pad of paper. “One stack of banana pancakes. That all, hon?”

 

“For now,” Shaw said, “thanks, doll.”

 

She smiled and walked away, returning moments later with milk, sugar, syrup, and utensils wrapped in a fabric napkin. Shaw poured a small amount of sugar and milk into her coffee, stirring until the liquid took on a slightly lighter shade. She opened the _Inquisitor_ she purchased from the young girl, reading headlines absently: record snowfall predicted in the next few weeks, multiple break-and-enters down in Eastern Parkway, a city councilman suspected of fraud, the latest on the stock market fluctuations, and results of sporting events.

 

It wasn't long before her food had arrived, since the diner was somewhat sparse this morning. It was probably because of the weather, though a few other regulars were scattered around. Shaw dug into her pancakes, not realizing how hungry she was until they were placed on the table in front of her. With very healthy splashes of the sweet syrup, only a few minutes passed before the plate was empty, and Shaw sat back in the booth to enjoy the rest of her coffee and attempt to read the paper again. Sally must have taken her plate while she was engrossed in the article about the recent crime. Something about the break-and-enters was familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

 

Before she could dwell on it any further, Shaw heard someone take the seat across from her with a slight huff. Folding the paper down onto the table, Shaw was met with a brown haired woman that she did not recognize. She had rounded face, full lips, and dark eyes. Her cheeks were somewhat red from the cold, though perhaps she had been wearing make-up. She was wearing a white dress with some kind of floral print, and a brown jacket that looked to be suede, definitely not weather appropriate. She pulled a scarf from around her neck, revealing a string of pearls, and Shaw also spotted shiny gold earrings dangling from the girl's lobes.  Both pieces of jewelry looked much too fancy to be wearing in a diner such as this one. Though her clothing was fit for an adult, her body language was somewhat childlike. She looked to the detective with excitement, while Shaw's face remained mostly neutral with a hint of confusion, perhaps.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

The young woman's expression fell, as if she suddenly wondered if she was sitting at the wrong table. “You _are_ detective Shaw, aren't you?” Shaw only nodded in response, and the woman's smile returned. “I'm Hanna.”

 

Shaw's nodded again in recognition. So this was Hanna Frey. “Right. Your friend tells me you need me to...” she paused, remembering how vague Root had been, “speak with someone?” Shaw was eager to solve whatever problem she was having and get the rest of her money.

 

“Straight to business, huh, detective?”

 

Shaw didn't respond, merely keeping a blank face on the girl until she was ready to speak. Hanna smiled, folding her hands on the table top. Shaw noticed that she wore a ring similar to the one she had seen on Root's finger, the only difference being the stone. While she had not been able to discern what she saw the previous night, the stone on Hanna's ring was bright green, possibly an emerald.  Based purely on the jewelry she wore, Hanna seemed to be well-off.

 

“I want to quit my job,” the young woman began, “but I'm afraid of how my boss'll react when I tell them.” Shaw motioned with a hand for her to continue. Hanna twisted the ring on her finger before speaking again. “That's where you would come in.”

 

Sameen paused, reaching for her coffee cup to take a small drink. “That's _it_?” She'd said, “you want me to quit for you?”

 

Hanna frowned and drew her eyes down to her hands. “It's... not that simple.” Sally returned with another coffee mug, placing it down in front of Hanna and filling it wordlessly. The young woman nodded in thanks, adding milk and sugar until the dark coffee swam and turned beige. Hanna continued: “Me and the other girls, we're under a contract. Sort of.”

 

Shaw resisted rolling her eyes, wishing that she would stop beating around. Instead she thought of the cash waiting for her. “What does that mean?”

 

Hanna took a drink from her coffee, made a face, then added more sugar. “Well, Miss Shaw, if you want me to come right out and say it—”

 

“That would be nice.”

 

“I'm afraid that Miss Morgan will send someone after me if I break our contract.”

 

_What does_ that _mean_ , Shaw almost repeated herself. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Shaw removed her black notebook and pen from her pocket, popping the cap off with her thumb. “Let's back up. Why don't you tell me about your job, and why you want to quit.” _And why you need a private investigator to babysit you_ , burned in Shaw's mind, left unsaid.

 

Hanna took a deep breath, locking eyes with Shaw before she spoke: “Zoe Morgan, our boss, she runs a jazz club called The Fix,” Shaw nodded, vaguely recalling passing the building, though she had never been inside. “Me and a few other girls are the,” she hesitated, lowering her voice, “well, we entertain guests off-site.”

 

“You entertain off-site?” Shaw asked. Hanna didn't reply, but the meaning in her words became clear. “Oh.”

 

“I know what you're thinkin', but it's not that bad,” Hanna began, telling Shaw how this Zoe treats them well. She let's them live in nice apartments, doesn't take a large portion of the earnings, and has security in place for difficult situations. Oddly, all she really asked of her girls was that they kept good records of dates and times, names and numbers. As well, she asked them to fishing for information that could be useful at some point in the future, whatever that meant. Shaw took a deep breath, beginning to see how complex the situation was.

 

“You're telling me that the nightclub is a front for both prostitution and, what, blackmail?”

 

“Don't forget poker.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Look, alls I know is Miss Morgan likes to keep multiple avenues for money and information.  There isn't much that goes on in this city without her knowing about it,” Hanna took another drink from her coffee cup. “She likes to be prepared.”

 

Shaw wasn't sure what she might be preparing for, but understood how information could be used as a weapon. Powerful men could reveal much about their private business, especially when they think they are in control. The black books kept by the girls could destroy many lives, Shaw figured. She then asked Hanna why she wanted to leave, and the young girl's eyes lit up.

 

“I'd like to become an actress in Hollywood,” she replied, sighing wistfully. “Ever since I was a little girl, I've always dreamed of performing on stage. My job at The Fix makes that... difficult, though.” Hanna must have taken the look on Shaw's face as being unimpressed, so she continued: “You know, acting is such a beautiful art form. You can become anyone you want! You're taken on a journey without ever having to step from the theater.”

 

While Sameen could appreciate the difficulty of the “art”, and the skill required to perform, it didn't seem like a big deal to her. She continued to take notes. “So what's your plan? A one-way train ticket to Los Angeles to get your big break in the _'biz_?”

 

Hanna smiled wryly, the look reminding her of Root, “something like that.”

 

Shaw was skeptical to say the very least, but Hanna's plans _after_ she terminated her contract weren't really her concern. She asked Hanna how to get in contact with her boss, but apparently she kept irregular hours and rarely responded to messages. Zoe was something of a socialite, and enjoyed taking her employees to different events, such as concerts, races, or fights. Shaw rolled her eyes; she didn't particularly want to go into the club if she could avoid it.

 

Shaw placed her notebook on the table, sliding it across to Hanna. “Write down your telephone number, that way I can call you after I track down Zoe.”

 

The young woman smiled, showing a row of white teeth, before writing in the book. “I'll look forward to it,” she'd said, sliding the book back to Shaw. “Thank you, detective.”

 

Folding her notebook and returning it to her pocket, Shaw shook her head, “I haven't done anything yet.”

 

“You listened and,” Hanna looked away, twisting her ring again, “you didn't judge. Folks don't exactly respect this line of work.”

 

To that, Shaw simply shrugged.  If she had known exactly what kind of situation she was getting in, she may have said no to the case.  Perhaps that's why Root was so vague to begin with.  With a final smile, Hanna Frey slid from the booth and walked away. Sameen sat in silence for several minutes before letting out a deep sigh. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the booth, unable to stop herself from thinking of all the ways this seemingly simple job could end up pear-shaped.

 

“Sam?” Shaw opened her eyes to see Sally standing at the table. “I know it's early but the pies are just 'bout done cooling. Dot said the apples are real swell this time 'round.”

 

And just like that, her day improved significantly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paper that Shaw buys from G̶e̶n̶ the newsgirl shares the name of the one that Root works for in my other fic, _Get the Scoop_. Considering that papers cost around 10¢, she actually gives her a nice tip.
> 
> The title comes from a song by the same name, sung by Dinah Shore


	3. The Darktown Poker Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw tries to track down Hanna's employer.

 

 

 

_January 8 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

After her meeting with Hanna Frey, Shaw returned to the office to review her notes and decide how to proceed. She telephoned The Fix, but apparently Miss Morgan wasn't available according to the answering service, so Shaw had left her name, number, and office hours. She also took some time to follow up with her only other open case regarding the stolen jewels. The address of her client, Diane Hansen, wasn't far from the break-ins she read about in the _Inquisitor_ this morning, perhaps revealing a pattern to the crimes. Shaw made a mental note to check the newspaper regularly over the next few days to see if anything else connected. In the meantime, she contacted Miss Hansen's office and left a message with the secretary about the developments so far.

 

Sameen leaned back in her desk chair, the metal creaking loudly as she reclined. She raised her arms and stretched deeply, groaning as she felt some of the tension leave her body. She righted herself in the chair again, reaching for the telephone that sat next to the lamp.  After dialing, she pinned the handset to her shoulder to leave her hands free, then plucked the half burned smoke from her ashtray, taking a drag before the call connected.

 

“ _Carter_ ,” her friend answered.

 

“It's Shaw,” she replied, flicking ash into the tray. “I need a favor.”

 

“ _Why am I not surprised?_ ” The officer sighed. “ _What is it?_ ”

 

“What can you tell me about The Fix?”

 

Joss paused for a beat, “ _the jazz club? Nice looking place, good music. There are whispers of card games too, though we've never made a bust_.” Shaw nodded thoughtfully, despite her friend not able to see her. “ _What's your interest?_ ”

 

“I'm working a case,” she said, “my client is an employee.”

 

“ _That all?_ ” Carter replied, her tone skeptical.

 

Sighing, Shaw replied: “Yes, mother. That's all,” she snuffed the smoke and coughed into her fist.

 

“ _You know I can't help but worry,_ ” she paused. Shaw rubbed the back of her neck before loosening her necktie. “ _How are you, by the way? Go to any meetings?_ ”

 

“Yeah,” Sameen said, “every one.”

 

“ _Uh-huh,_ ” her friend saw through her sarcasm easily. “ _How many days?_ ”

 

Shaw glanced at the paper calendar on her desk, now reading **01-08-47**. “Eight.”

 

“ _Good for you,_ ” Carter said earnestly. “ _I'm really proud of you._ ”

 

Shaw always found conversations related to this topic to be odd. What exactly was there to be proud of? People asked how many days sober she was, and their response was always the same. _Good for you, I'm so proud._ Sameen had a feeling that she was going to start hating the words. It was one of the reasons that she would probably never step foot into one of the AA meetings Carter is always mentioning. To be surrounded by strangers who tell of their personal struggle with alcohol before revealing how many days they've gone without. The group would nod, or beam with pride and say: _I'm so proud of you._ Ridiculous.

 

It didn't matter what milestone she reached; it could be two days, two hundred days, or it could be eight. And the response would be exactly the same. Counting was as meaningless and empty as the words sympathizers spoke to her. She had a bottle in the drawer right now and could end this stupid drought, and all further conversations related to it.

 

“ _Shaw?_ ” Carter's voice snapped mind forward, away from the liquor waiting in her desk. She took a deep breath, fighting off feelings of suffocation. Her fingers fumbled to undo the top button of her white-collared shirt.

 

“Sorry, distracted,” she coughed again. “Listen, my client's name is Hanna Frey, you gonna pull her file for me or not?”

 

Joss was silent for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out the real reason for Shaw's lapse in attention. Eventually, she said: “ _I'll see if we have anything on her and get back to you._ ”

 

Shaw thanked her friend and said her goodbyes, perhaps a little too urgently. Once the phone is down on the receiver, she slides open the unlocked desk drawer, reaching for her Smith & Wesson. Flicking the cylinder free, Shaw looks through the spaces where her bullets should be, before spinning the chamber and snapping it back in place. She held the gun in both hands for several minutes, until the cold metal was warm under her grip, finding the weight of the weapon a source of comfort, albeit an unhealthy one. Probably.

 

Sighing, Shaw returned the gun to it's drawer and retrieved her city map to locate the nightclub. It would take some time for her to reach it on foot, and she wasn't particularly interested in trudging snow all night. Although fresh air would do her some good, she eventually decided to call a taxi cab.

 

Arriving at The Fix just after 10PM, Shaw walked up the long side steps before reaching the entrance. Taking a deep breath of the chilling night air, she pushed open the double doors and walked inside the club. As most bars were, The Fix was dimly lit, a soft golden glow bathed the space, creating a relaxing atmosphere. Directly in front of the entrance was the bar, the long counter stretching out across, then towards the back of the club, making a sort of L shape. To Shaw's right were the large windows, as well as booths for patrons to sit and enjoy music and a drink. She could also see several guests eating food as well.

 

Situated against the far wall to her left was the stage currently occupied by a four person band, entertaining those who ate, and the people in the small space which she assumed was the dance area. On the other side of the floor were more rows of tables, followed by a set of doors leading into the kitchen. There was also a small hallway that was blocked off by rope, the paper sign hanging from it read: “under construction”. The entrance guarded by a tall man, who she assumed was security. Shaw _also_ assumed that's where the poker took place, because it sure didn't sound like any construction was going on.

 

A young man asks to take Shaw's coat and hat, but she refuses, hoping she wont be staying long enough anyway. She approaches the bar while watching the performers. A dark skinned woman sang, while a dark man directly behind her tapped drums lightly. To his left, another man stood strumming a cello, and to his right, a woman in a low-backed dress played the piano. Her skin was incredibly pale in contrast to her fellow entertainers, Shaw noticed, and she was also the only one who played with her back facing the crowd. Shaw took a moment, watching the muscles on the woman's back work as her hands ran along the keys before returning focus to the bar.

 

She watched the man behind the bar pouring drinks for other patrons, slinging a towel over his shoulder and smiling at the paying customers. His blonde hair came down to his shoulders, and his face was in desperate need of a razor. Shaw took a seat at the counter, meanwhile she heard the crowd clap in appreciation as the band finished their set. Now, only the sound of murmuring guests filled the bar.

 

“What can I get for the lady?” Asked the bartender as he leaned across the counter in front of her.

 

Shaw's eyes scanned the bottles behind the bar, dizzy from the variety of shapes, sizes, and colors. She looked out to the crowd of people in the club; wine glasses, beer bottles, margaritas, scotch. Anything and everything. Her pupils dilated and she felt feverish, her temperature spiked and she suddenly wasn't getting enough oxygen.

 

“I'll take a Manhattan,” a new, vaguely familiar voice said from beside Shaw. “And a Coke for the good detective here.”

 

She felt a hand lightly grasp her shoulder, then release it. Tilting her head up, Shaw caught a look between the bartender and the woman who spoke, and when she turned her head to the right she watched Root take a seat on the stool next to her. Their eyes met, Root wore a playful smirk across her red lips. Her brown hair, which parted down the middle, was tied up in a tight bun. Her dress was a dark fabric, showing off the skin on her neck and arms, as well as her back. Shaw couldn't help think about how different she looked now, but could probably blame the hazy, sleep deprived state she was in when they met yesterday evening.

 

The bartender placed a cocktail glass in front of Root, and a smaller tumbler for Shaw. Root accepted hers with a nod to the man, taking a dainty sip of the copper colored liquid. Her fingernails were still painted black, Shaw noticed, and the ring she wore was clearer than it had been the other night, the stone sparkling with a mixture of pink and blue. Shaw took her own glass and drank from it, the fizzy beverage tickling her throat.

 

Root placed her glass down, “thank you for meeting with Hanna,” she said. “I heard it went well.”

 

Shaw nodded, her eyes on the spherical ice inside her glass, buoyant in the soda. For the first time, she considered the nature of the relationship between Hanna and Root. They were friends, so Root had said, but were they co-workers as well? Another question came into mind as she tipped the glass to her lips again: why had Root sought her out specifically? She turned to the other woman, intending to ask when she heard the music start up again. Glancing over Root's shoulder, Shaw could see the band had changed their formation; the drummer was now holding some kind of brass horn, and the pianist was no longer seated on stage. Root smiled when they began to play.

 

“Care to dance, detective?”

 

Shaw breathed out a laugh, momentarily fogging up the glass at her lips. She looked to Root, trying to figure out if she was serious or not, and the other woman met her eyes in anticipation. “No,” Shaw said flatly. Root's smile grew positively impish, as if she was hoping for that very response.

 

Root placed her now empty cocktail glass down on the bar, “maybe next time, then. Good evening, Shaw.”

 

As she stood up to leave, Shaw reached out, fingers lightly brushing Root's bare arm “Wait,” she said. Root turned slowly, her eyes drifting from Shaw's own hand, up her arm and to her eyes. “I need to speak with Zoe Morgan.”

 

Root looked down to Shaw's hand again as she withdrew it. The woman turned to fully face the detective. “Miss Morgan is away tonight.”

 

“Now, why don't I believe you?”

 

Root shrugged, placing a hand on her slight waist. “She takes meetings on her terms,” she'd said, “be patient a little while longer.”

 

The woman turned and walked away without another word. Shaw was beginning to find Root to be infuriating; _she's_ the one who asked for her help with Hanna's situation, certainly knowing it involved Zoe. So why not just arrange _that_ meeting as well? The way she saw it, speaking with Hanna was almost unnecessary. Having wasted enough time, Shaw downed the rest of her Coke, placing the glass down hard enough to get the attention of the bartender once again.

 

“What do I owe you?” She asked.

 

He looked at her carefully, glancing briefly to his left before a very friendly and very fake smile washed over his face. “The first round is with our compliments, Miss Shaw.”

 

“Whatever,” Shaw said, sliding from the stool and walking purposefully to the doors.

 

Stepping outside and into the frigid night air, Shaw continued to wonder what sort of game she had gotten herself into.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

_January 9 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

 

After a very unproductive evening, Shaw finds herself at the diner the next morning, once again seated at a booth. The snow hadn't yet fallen as predicted, and a lot more people were in the diner as compared to the previous morning. She'd finished her plain buttermilk pancakes and was scanning the pages of the newspaper for anything pertaining to the crimes in Eastern Parkway. Since getting in touch with the jazz club owner was a bust, she ought to focus doing her actual job. The paper mentioned there was another break-in, although it didn't say whether anything was taken. Shaw wrote the information in her notebook regardless, intending to check where the target was in relation to her client's home.

 

A few minutes later, she heard a man in the booth behind her clear his throat loudly. Not in the same way Shaw might do so when she woke up in the morning, or after having a cigarette, it seemed like he was trying to get someone's attention. She turned her head, the man was sitting alone reading a newspaper with his back to her. Shaw couldn't see much, but noticed his black hair, speckled with gray, and black suit covering his shoulders.

 

Shaw faced forward again, not thinking much on it. A a few minutes later, however, she was surprised to hear him speak. His voice was a deep whisper. “Detective Shaw.”

 

She kept her eyes on the pages in front of her, though no longer focused on the words. “Who wants to know?” She said, matching his tone.

 

“My employer,” the man replied.

 

Sameen rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to simply get up and face the man in the suit. The cloak and dagger routine didn't really do it for her. “Who is your employer, and more importantly, why do I care?”

 

She was so focused on the man behind her that she almost didn't hear the person take the seat _in front_ of her. For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, Shaw quickly folded her newspaper down, only to be met with an unfamiliar woman. Worlds different than Hanna Frey, this woman was confident, not unlike the way Root had been, and carried herself in a way that suggested she owned the entire world. The woman reached for a menu, casually glancing at the items without regarding Shaw. Her hair was long and wavy, sandy blonde in color. Her eyes were as dark as Shaw's own, and her lips held a crooked smirk. Underneath her dark heavy coat, Shaw could see this woman was wearing a red dress.

 

Finally folding the menu down on the table, the woman met Shaw's baffled look with a smile. “What's good here?” Shaw blinked, a few beats passing between them.  After it became clear that she wasn't going to respond, the woman spoke again. “I hear you've been trying to reach me.” Her voice was low, raspy.

 

Shaw's eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned forward onto the table. “You're Zoe Morgan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This title comes from a song sung by Phil Harris in 1946.


	4. It's a Most Unusual Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's meeting with Zoe goes well. But does it go _too_ well?

 

 

“Why don't we go for a drive,” Zoe had said. Before Shaw could say no, she remembered Root's words about how Zoe took meetings on her own terms.  Not wanting to miss the opportunity to speak with the woman, she agreed. Now Shaw found herself with the woman seated in the back of her large black town car. The man in the suit, who had been tasked with distracting Shaw in the diner, was also apparently the woman's driver. John, she learned, cruised through the streets, following traffic rules and speed limits, his sharp blue eyes occasionally glancing at the women from the rear-view mirror.

 

“So,” Zoe began, “why does an ex-marine turned private eye want to meet with a simple business owner like me?”

 

Shaw stiffened at the woman's knowledge of her military past, but recovered quickly. “One of your employees came to me.”

 

“Is that right?” Her tone of voice was casual, as if they had been discussing the weather, or something equally insignificant.

 

The sooner she got to the point, the sooner she could forget this whole thing, Shaw figured. “Hanna Frey. She wants out.”

 

Zoe hummed next to her, glancing out of the window. Shaw also caught a look between her and John. “If that's the case, why not come directly to me?”

 

Shaw shrugged, “I'm just the messenger.” The other woman's smirk grew as they stopped at a red light. “I get the feeling she's afraid of you.”

 

“She shouldn't be afraid of _me_ ,” Zoe said. Shaw noticed how she emphasized her words carefully; Hanna may not be scared of Zoe herself, but there was someone to be feared. Was there more to her driver? Or did Zoe employ enforcers as well?

 

In order to clear the tension-filled air in the car, Zoe suggested they drive to the different apartments she had for the girls. Obviously Shaw refused, seeing no point whatsoever, but Zoe said that it would give her time to consider letting Hanna go, while also getting to know Shaw herself. Effectively trapped in the vehicle anyway, the detective reluctantly agreed.

 

As they reached each building, Zoe told Shaw about the women who lived there; where they were from, what sorts of social events they enjoyed, and what she knew of their history. It was irrelevant as far as Shaw was concerned, but she wrote the names and addresses in her notebook all the same. She had some of her girls paired up in the same apartment building, though on different floors, and implied that she owned the buildings they lived in. A nightclub, apartments, and hookers? Zoe was well off, it seemed. What else was she involved in?

 

In addition to Hanna Frey, Zoe told her about women named Harper Rose, Wendy McNally, Sofia Campos, Francesca Wells, and Samantha Groves. She also employed a handful of body guards, a personal physician by the name of Megan Tillman, and someone she referred to as a special consultant, whatever that was. Shaw nodded vacantly, thinking about how the places weren't terribly far from that of her other client's home. Lucky for the hookers, apartments were less likely to get burgled.

 

The car eventually ends up in a familiar neighborhood and coasts to a stop on the street in front of Shaw's _own_ apartment building. It was particularly curious considering that Zoe hadn't given her driver any direction, not to mention Shaw definitely didn't reveal her home address. John exited the vehicle and walked around to open the door on Shaw's side.

 

“Come by the club later tonight,” Zoe said. “I'll let you know my decision about Hanna then.”

 

“You could just telephone me,” Shaw stepped from the car, “or her.”

 

Zoe smiled, obviously enjoying playing the game. “Be seeing you, Shaw.”

 

With that John closed the door, nodding once to Shaw, and returning to the drivers side. The engine revved, and he merged smoothly into the traffic. She shook her head, pulling a cigarette and lighter from inside her coat pocket. She exhaled the smoke from her lungs slowly, still watching until the car disappeared completely from view. Shaw turned and began walking away from her building and towards the police station. Zoe knew a lot about her, that much was clear, but maybe it was time Sameen gathered some information of her own.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

The walk from her place to the police station was quite the journey, the sun had almost completed it's descent by the time she arrived. She was grateful that the sidewalks had been cleared of the snow at least. Sameen made her way to the very back corner of the station, looking to meet with Carter. Being the only woman on the force, and a dark skinned one to boot, unfortunately she was situated far away from the others. At least that meant she had a little more privacy, she figured. Shaw took a seat across from her friend, removing her hat and leaning back in the creaky chair. Carter looked up at her, closing the file she was writing in, and matched her relaxed stance.

 

Shaw took the package of cigarettes from her coat, tapping the box against her palm before drawing one out. “You get the file for me?” She said, placing the smoke between her lips.

 

“Hello to you, too,” Carter said. Shaw smirked, bringing her lighter to the tip of her cigarette, while her friend opened the desk drawer and produced a manila folder. Shaw scooped it up, flipping it open and beginning to read. “Not much in there. Theft, trespassing, that sort of thing. One charge for solicitation that ended up being dropped.”

 

Nothing about the file stuck out as being unusual. Each time Hanna was in trouble, someone named J. Rooney was the one to pay for her release, not Zoe Morgan. “Anything on the bailer?” She asked, her cigarette hanging from between her lips.

 

Carter shrugged, and Shaw continued to browse the file with a sigh. These people were good at covering their tracks, the untraceable cash probably helped. Shaw closes the file, tossing it back on the desk before grabbing her own notebook. She copies the names of the women Zoe mentioned today, giving the list to the policewoman. She decided to leave out the addresses in case there was some connection to the kind of work they were involved in. That wasn't really her business, after all.

 

“Check out these names too, will you?”

 

Joss scanned the list with a frown before looking back to Shaw. “What are you mixed up in?”

 

Shaw took the cigarette from her lips, flicking ash onto the ground. “I'll let you know as soon as I find out,” she collected her hat and stood up. “Call me if there's anything unusual on those girls.”

 

She turned and walked away without giving her friend the chance to refuse. Stepping out into the street, Shaw flicked her cigarette into a nearby bank of snow, deciding to walk to her office instead of home. After only a few blocks, a black car pulled up on the curb next to her. Shaw stopped and looked to her left, trying to see if she recognized it, or any occupants. The back door opened, and she peered inside to find Root sitting on the far side. Her long legs crossed with grace, the cigarette in her hand hanging lazily. She could also see John in the driver's seat. Shaw took a step towards the vehicle leaning her hand on the roof, suddenly finding herself much too tired to deal with this.

 

“Nice night for a walk,” the woman said from inside the car. Shaw sighed, her breath creating mist in the cold air. “Where are you headed, detective?”

 

“Surprised you don't already know,” Shaw said after rolling her eyes.

 

Root smiled that irritating smirk. “For argument sake, let's pretend that I don't,” she took a drag from her cigarette, blowing smoke out her window. “Are you going to get in? Or do I have to ask nicely?”

 

Shaw lowered herself into the car, pulling the door closed behind her with another sigh. The car pulled from the curb and started to drive without direction from herself or Root. She reached for her cigarettes to find the box empty and she sighed a third time. She was definitely too tired for this shit.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Not surprisingly, Shaw was taken to the jazz club to meet with Zoe. According to Root, the woman had tried, unsuccessfully, to reach her via telephone, and sent her and John to collect her from the police station. When Shaw asked _how_ they knew where she was, Root simply smiled saying: _we have our ways_.

 

John opened the door for Root upon arrival, while Shaw exited on her own. Adjusting her hat, Shaw followed John up the stairs, waiting as he held open the large door for them to enter The Fix.

 

Shaw immediately found herself zeroing in on the variety of liquor behind the bar. Being in this place made her feel restless, her skin crawling from underneath her shirt. All noise in the club ceased, momentarily replaced by her thumping heartbeat; no patrons talking, no musicians playing. Just the viscous _lub-dub_ from inside her chest.

 

Then, she heard John's low voice: “This way,” he'd said, gesturing for her to follow him.

 

She looked around, pausing when she realized that Root had disappeared into the crowd, but then realized that, well, she didn't particularly care what that strange woman did. Carefully weaving between those who sat and enjoyed food and drink, or the ones who danced to the music, Shaw and John eventually made their way to a large booth in the corner. It was fancy and somewhat private, with security standing close by. She hadn't noticed it her first time here, but one could reasonably surmise that this was Zoe's private section. John gestured for her to take a seat, and she complied.

 

“Can I get you a drink?” Zoe said, to which Shaw shook her head after a hard swallow.

 

Although... would one drink be so bad? This situation was proving to be trying in a variety of ways, these people always one step ahead of her. How is it that Zoe knew about her past, military career, where she lived and worked, but not that she was trying to stay sober? Perhaps she did know, and this was all an elaborate test.

 

 _Perhaps Shaw should have simply said_ fuck it _and ran out of the club without ever looking back, money be damned._

 

“Water,” the detective eventually said, clearing her throat.

 

Zoe nodded, likely to someone standing nearby to their booth, but Shaw eyes were fixed on the candle that sat in the middle of the table. She let the flames hypnotize her, thankful for some kind of distraction until their drinks arrived. Zoe's beverage was a wonderful brown in color, while Shaw was stuck with water; clear and boring. As if sensing her tension, Zoe drew a package of cigarettes from the purse on the seat beside her, handing one smoke across the table to Shaw. She accepted, recalling that her own supply had already been depleted. Without waiting for a lighter, Shaw stuck the cigarette between her lips and leaned forward on the table, using the candle to light the end. Miss Morgan watched her with a lopsided smile, as she used a match to light a smoke of her own.

 

The two sat without speaking for several minutes. Music taking the place of conversation, smoke being lifted up into the ceiling, until Zoe finally broke the quiet. “I spoke with Hanna today.”

 

Shaw nodded, taking another puff. Was this nightmare almost over? “And?”

 

“Asked her why she never told me she wanted to be a actor,” Zoe snuffed her cigarette. “I could have made it happen, you know.” Sameen bobbed her head, eyebrows high, to which Zoe laughed quietly. “In any case, I told her that leaving wouldn't be a problem. So long as she gives me time to find a new tenant. She's in one of the nicer buildings, it's only fair.”

 

Shaw nodded vacantly once again, wondering why the hell she's involved in this. That seemed to be a recurring thought these last few days. She extinguished her cigarette, taking a drink from her water glass instead. She looked out into the crowd; people danced and laughed, they drank and sang. How many were here for the escort service and not the music? She looked to the band: a blonde woman was singing tonight, and the other two members were the same as before, one at their regular post playing drums, the other with a saxophone. Their pianist, Shaw noticed, was once again missing in action. Bringing her gaze back to the bar, Shaw could see Root sitting and chatting with a man who was well on his way to being inebriated. She suppressed a shiver at the sight, and quickly returned her attention to Zoe.

 

“Well,” Shaw began, “if it's all the same to you, I'd like to leave now.”

 

Zoe regarded her for a few seconds. Shaw fought to maintain eye contact, the atmosphere in the club suddenly making it hard for her to sit still, even for a short time.

 

“So soon?” Zoe's voice was smooth, patronizing even, as she drank from her glass. “Everything all right, detective?”

 

“Mhmm,” she mumbled, already sliding from the booth. “Nice meeting you. Good luck with,” she gestured with her hand, “all this crap.”

 

Sameen placed her hat on her head and started towards the doors, pointedly not looking in the direction of the bar. She was a few meters from the exit when she felt someone grab her arm. It wasn't a hard grasp, or a particularly alarming one, but she immediately shook them off, spinning to see that the culprit was Root. The irritation washed from her face. Well, some of it.

 

Root looked at her with the usual mischievousness behind her eyes, then something shifted. The woman appeared to be scrutinizing Shaw's appearance, her eyes scanning for something. Shaw watched her eyes, wondering if there was a whiskey that matched the color... an old oak? Maybe sherry, or even—

 

Shaw's vision momentarily blurred, forcing her to blink several times to clear her sight. She was almost ten days without a drink and certainly didn't want to start her count over again. Hell she didn't want to be counting to begin with, as it was completely idiotic. She shook her head, as if to force thoughts of liquor from her skull. Meanwhile Root, perhaps becoming aware of the internal struggle grasped one of the detective's shoulders, continuing to scan her face.

 

“Are you unwell, Sameen?”

 

Shaw pushed Root's hand from her shoulder. “Just need some air.”

 

The woman nodded, still looking at her with knit brows. She produces a handkerchief from the small bag hanging off her shoulder and holds it out to Shaw. Feeling perspiration on the back of her neck and forehead, she accepts the cloth and uses it to dab her skin. When Shaw tries to return it, Root's hand is briefly on hers, stopping her offering.

 

“Keep it,” she says. Shaw doesn't reply, but stuffs the fabric into the pocket of her jacket. “Will you be all right getting home?”

 

“I'll get a cab,” Shaw replied.

 

A beat passed, then: “I owe you a debt.”

 

Of this, Shaw was well aware. She had fulfilled her end of this odd arrangement and was quite looking forward to the rest of that money Root had promised her a few days ago. Though at the moment, she really just wanted to step out of the club and let the cold air wash away the anxiousness she felt. Besides, she hadn't used much of the money Root gave her to begin with, she'd be okay waiting a few days.

 

“We can settle later,” Shaw said. “You obviously know how to find me.”

 

Root smiled softly. “Good night, detective.”

 

Shaw nodded to the woman before turning and walking into the night air. She stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, the uneasiness fading away with every breath of the cold air she inhaled. It wasn't until her face became stiff did she start to walk back to her office, the light finally visible at the end of the tunnel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for tuning in!
> 
> The title comes from a song sung by Ray Noble.


	5. It Don't Mean a Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Shaw thinks she's fulfilled her obligation, she reads shocking news that pulls her right back into the fray.

 

_January 13 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Three days without hearing from New York's finest prostitution ring did wonders for Shaw's attitude. Though she was still edgy, sarcastic, and maybe a little bit broody, she felt as if a weight had been lifted. In reality, she had only associated with the group for a few days, it still managed to weigh on her heavily.

 

Braving the snowfall, Shaw walked from her apartment to the diner, recalling a conversation she had with Carter the night before. The policewoman came across something unusual while researching the names of the women Shaw had given her. All of them had charges similar to that of Hanna Frey involving petty crimes for which they all quickly made bail. The girls were all given freedom by a mister Warren, Riley, and Reese, each with the first initial J. Shaw assumed it had been Zoe's driver that paid for the release of each woman.

 

The strangest file, however, ended up being that of Samantha Groves. Rather than find a similar slew of crimes, Joss had discovered that she died back in 1931 on what would have been her sixteenth birthday. In addition, her file was the only one without a photograph. Had Shaw made a mistake when she wrote the names down, she wondered, or perhaps there was more to this story than she was led to believe. For a moment, she considered giving her friend Sam Groves' address, that way they could check with the building owner, or speak with other tenants to see if they've seen or heard of this woman before.

 

It was at this point Shaw remembered that she no longer cared.

 

She thanked her friend for the time she took to dig all this up, almost offering to buy her a beer for the trouble she went to. But Shaw realized that would open the door to a conversation she wasn't interested in having, so it was left at a thank you, and lingering day-dreams of a brew so thick you couldn't see through it. Sighing, she finally entered the diner.

 

Sameen took a seat at the counter rather than a booth, as she had no intention of speaking with anyone today, and ordered a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with her coffee. Once she was finished, she looked for the weather section in the _Inquisitor_ to see if the snow would continue the way it was predicted. Large storms were problematic, more car accidents, more crime, and not to mention the potential for power outages. She folded the paper again, taking a sip from her coffee and watching patrons coming in and out through the double doors. After a few minutes, someone familiar stepped inside, making her stomach involuntarily drop.

 

“What now...” she mumbled to herself, as Hanna Frey spotted her and began her approach with a wave of her hand. What were the chances she just came for coffee?

 

“Hey, detective!”

 

Evidently, the chances were zero.

 

With a small sigh, Shaw placed her cup back down on it's saucer, waiting for Hanna to take the seat next to her. Her brown hair, which had been straightened flat, sat underneath a large fluffy hat, to which she had the matching scarf tied around her neck. This time she wore a faded denim jacket over a white dress with nude pantyhose. When she slipped the black gloves from her hands, Shaw once again saw the bright green ring on her middle finger, sparkling even in the dingy diner light.

 

“I'm glad I ran into you here,” Hanna said with a smile, “I had to see you again.”

 

“Unless you're here to give me more money, I don't see wh—” Shaw stopped when she saw Hanna was indeed drawing an envelope from her jacket.

 

“For being so kind to me.”

 

Hanna lay the envelope on the counter next to Shaw. She lifted it up and slid it inside her breast pocket without checking the contents. “Thanks. I guess.”

 

“I know it's not as much as Sam gave you...”

 

Shaw furrowed her brow at the name, “who is Sam?”

 

The young girl smiled, tilting her head, “my good friend?” Hanna used a leading tone which gave Shaw the impression that she was supposed to know what she was talking about. However, the detective merely stared blankly. “Come now, Miss Shaw, you know Sam. Why, she's the one who recommended I meet you here to begin with.”

 

Oh, _that_ Sam.

 

Wait, what?

 

Before Shaw could tell Hanna that she had actually met with someone called Root, the young girl perked up, looking towards the door. “I've gotta run, detective. Johnny's here to pick me up.”

 

“Uhh—”

 

“Thanks a million,” she quickly stood from her seat, pressing her lips to Shaw's cheek. Though Shaw had no time to protest, her head instinctively leaned back after the contact. “You're a doll.”

 

Just as quickly as she came, Hanna was skipping away towards the door where Shaw could see the silhouette of Zoe's driver, John. Shaw sighed, momentarily watching them leave before turning back in her stool. Sally arrived to top her coffee up, and the waitress smiled warmly.

 

“Who's your friend?” The blonde had asked.

 

Shaw shook her head, adding sugar and milk to her coffee. “Business client.”

 

Sally smiled again, her blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, I don't know 'bout that,” she said in her southern drawl, “that girl seemed a little sweet on you. Why, Sam, I had no idea you were so scandalous,” the last word was said in a hush.

 

The waitress was mistaking Hanna's gratitude for something more, which Shaw could understand. Sally didn't know that the detective had helped free her from a life of prostitution, after all. Shaw ultimately ignored the comment, opting to concentrate on the dessert menu instead.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Before she returned to her office, Shaw was able to get in touch with her other client via payphone. She had been somewhat out of the loop, but Diane Hansen had apparently called the police to report a suspicious vehicle in her neighborhood. She let Shaw know that the police were continuing the investigation of her stolen jewelry, and would try to keep the detective apprised of the situation in case they needed some additional assistance. Extra cash from Hanna and now some unexpected free time... what would she do with herself?

 

Eventually she did return to her office with the intention of updating the case file she had on both Diane Hansen and Hanna Frey. Stepping into the office proper, Sameen removed her hat and overcoat, placing them both on the hook next to the door. She bent down to the floor and collected the few letters that had been slipped under the door in her absence. Though mostly junk, one stuck out with no return address or sender information. She ripped the side of the envelope and removed the letter and unfolded it. It was short and handwritten, reading:

 

_Detective Shaw,_

 

_I thought it was about time I settled my debt to you. You may wonder why I have not simply sent the money with this missive, and if I'm to be honest, I didn't want to miss an opportunity to see you once more. Enclosed is my personal address. Please come to me your earliest convenience._

 

_Yours,_

_Root_

 

She read the letter twice over with a raised eyebrow, turning the paper over to read the address as well. As she walked back to her desk, tossing the rest of her mail in the waist bin, she felt a pang of something familiar. Sitting down, Sameen lay the letter flat on her desk, then reached for the black notebook inside her coat pocket. Comparing the addresses she had written during her drive with Zoe Morgan, she found an exact match for the one written down by Root.

 

It belonged to Samantha Groves.

 

Now, Shaw had hoped that this would provide clarity, or maybe even closure, but it only raised more questions: What was the connection between Root and Samantha Groves? Why was she using the address (and name?) of a woman who died over ten years ago? Hanna and Zoe both mentioned someone called Sam, but never a woman by the name of Root. Surely, they weren't the same person... were they? How could they be?

 

Shaw closed her notebook and folded the letter. If she kept digging, it would no doubt lead to more trouble than any of these girls are worth. She stood from her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She opened the door to her right, which led into the very small military type bedroom attached to her office. It came in handy on the exceptionally long nights when her small couch, or chair, were inadequate for sleeping. There was also a bathroom at the end of this room, which she used to wash her face, and make sure her suit was clean before she went out to see Root. Her necktie had fallen loose, and several of the buttons on her white-collared shirt were undone. She re-buttoned her shirt, tied her tie once again, momentarily wondering why she even cared.

 

Satisfied, Shaw stuffed the notebook and letter into her suit jacket pocket, retrieved her overcoat and hat from the door, and walked outside.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Root's apartment is a fair distance from her office, and since the temperature had fallen after sunset, Shaw decided to take a cab. It wasn't a long ride, and thankfully a quiet one. When she finally arrived at the building, she entered with a single nod to the doorman, and headed straight for the elevator, pausing in front of the large doors.

 

Many people she knew suffered ill effects as a result of being overseas, anger issues, PTSD and the like. Shaw was mostly unchanged, aside from her increased thirst for alcohol, and she would argue that was brought on by what happened _after_ she returned. The one thing she did notice about herself was her tendency now to avoid any closed off or tight spaces. She recalls being in an underground passageway when an explosion caused the walls around her to collapse, effectively trapping her for over twelve hours before another unit of soldiers dug her out. Not thinking much of it at the time, once she returned to the United States, things like elevators, or even small hallways or cars made her uneasy. Her heart rate would increase, breathing suddenly labored and, in severe cases, her limbs paralyzed.

 

Root was on the third floor, so it wouldn't be a long ride, however she couldn't seem to will her hand to move forward and press the call button. Sighing, Shaw walked to the left and opened the door to the stairwell. Unit six was her intended destination, and once Shaw had a chance to catch her breath, she rapped her knuckles against the brown door.

 

Soon after she'd knocked, the door opened. Root was on the other side, and she greeted the detective with a smile. “Shaw,” she'd said, “come in.”

 

“Thanks,” Shaw replied, removing her hat as she walked onto the landing. “Sorry to drop in so late,” she furrowed her brow as Root shut the door behind her. She wasn't _really_ sorry, but she did want that money.

 

“It's always a pleasure seeing you, detective,” Root said, offering to take Shaw's overcoat. She hesitated, as she was not expecting to stay for a length of time, but slipped the gray coat from her shoulders all the same. “Please, make yourself at home.”

 

Root was dressed more casually than their previous meetings. Her dress was sleeveless, dark in color with white polka dots. It flowed down to her knees, light as air, and had an open collar that exposed the pale skin of her chest. She was barefoot, and Shaw couldn't help notice that her toenails were painted black, just as her fingernails were.

 

As Root hung Shaw's coat in the small closet next to the door, the detective stepped into the apartment, nodding appreciatively at it's size and style. To Shaw's right was the sitting area, complete with a couch, coffee table, and two chairs facing each other. Against that wall, a fireplace crackled loudly, with a very large bookcase just beside it. Next to the bookcase was a large table that housed a record player, and Shaw noticed that in addition to books, Root had quite the record collection as well.

 

Root's window's were full length, spanning across the entire far wall. There was even a pane that acted as a sliding door which led onto a small balcony, currently filled with snow. To Shaw's left were two doors, one swing door leading into the kitchen, and the other, she assumed, lead to the master bedroom.  Perhaps most surprising was that Root had a piano close to the window. Shaw stepped towards it, running her finger against the clean black lid. Several pieces of paper were on the top, as well as a pencil and an empty wine glass. More pages were on the music stand.

 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Root said, to which Shaw nodded, turning back to see her step into the kitchen.

 

Shaw moves to peruse the books and records that Root had, and it wasn't long before the woman returned to the sitting area carrying a metal tray. She places it down on the small table, gesturing for Shaw to join her on the couch. The detective complies, sitting facing the door.

 

On the tray Shaw sees two teacups, a coffee pot, an envelope, as well as what looks like a small flask. The hairs of the back of her neck stand up, and she reaches up to rub the spot with her right hand. Root pours coffee in both cups, then takes the flask, adding a splash of the amber liquid to her own cup. Shaw could see that she still wore her large ring, though this time the stone looked like it was blue.

 

Root looks to Shaw, gesturing with the flask as a question. Shaw was thirteen days without a drink, and yet merely seeing the liquor still made her throat dry. In that moment she couldn't help but wonder why she had rushed over here. This meeting could have waited, all Root wanted was to give her the rest of the money she was owed for helping Hanna. With her eyes fixated on Root's now tainted coffee, Sameen shook her head a fraction. Root passed the cup to Shaw, leaving the saucer behind on the tray. She then took her own cup and sat down on the sofa next to Shaw.

 

Something about this encounter felt more intimate than their business meetings. Shaw certainly felt more relaxed, although that could have been Root's intention all along. Sameen looked to her associate, watching as she tipped the cup to her red lips. The detective's eyes drifted to Root's legs which, objectively speaking of course, were remarkable. It was as if they were crafted from pure ivory. Thin, but not bony, Shaw could have been gazing upon a professional dancer. Root's ankles, now visible without bulky heels, were long and slim, and Shaw's eyes trailed up to her calves before Root leaned forward to put her cup back down on the tray. Feeling somewhat flush, Shaw took a sip from her own cup, the bitter coffee burned her tongue and throat as she swallowed, but it helped to keep her alert and focused. It seemed like Root had an effect on her, but she wasn't sure why.

 

Root picked up the envelope and held it out, Shaw meanwhile returned her cup to the tray and took it from her hands. Flipping the paper back, Shaw could see the rest of their agreed fee inside: five one-hundred dollar bills. She thumbed them quickly to count, to which Root raised an eyebrow.

 

“Don't trust me?”

 

Shaw snorted, “would you?”

 

A smirk, then: “I suppose not.”

 

Satisfied, Shaw slid the envelope inside her blazer pocket, and retrieved her coffee. She took another drink from the cup. Root seemed to be watching her carefully.

 

“I wanted to thank you,” Root began, “for helping my friend.”

 

Shaw pat her chest where she had just stored the money. She tipped the cup to her lips, drank the remaining liquid, and placed it back on top it's saucer with a small clink. She leaned her arm over the back of the couch and looked to Root. She was prepared to make her exit when the woman spoke again:

 

“Maybe there's another way I can repay the favor.”

 

Shaw met her eyes with a neutral expression. She would not be opposed to accepting more money, that was certain. Or perhaps there was another matter that Root needed help with, such as an unpleasant client. She considered the possible options for a few moments, until Root's shift gained her full attention. She had moved closer, her right hand now covering Shaw's knee, fingers drawing idly on her slacks. Shaw looked down; her nails were painted black, as they were when they first met. Shaw could also see the ring on her middle finger, the stone iridescent in the low light. She then brought her gaze up to Root's eyes again, they seemed to darken in the light of the fire. As Root leaned closer, Shaw glanced at the other woman's lips, only for a moment. The tension escalated as Root reached slowly with her left hand, taking the lapel of Shaw's coat in her fist. They were now close enough that Shaw could feel Root's breath across her lips, the scent of alcohol tingling her nostrils. The aroma alone made her light-headed.

 

Root pulled her forward the remaining distance, kissing her tightly and quickly. Shaw's lips opened under Root's, and she took hold of her slim waist, pulling their bodies closer. She felt Root's tongue slip inside of her mouth, and Shaw could taste the alcohol she drunk. It had been brandy, and it set her nerves on fire.

 

Of all the outcomes Shaw considered when she accepted this job from Root last week, this was the least likely one. Although, Shaw didn't consider it an unfortunate turn of events. Not really, anyway. Root's lips worked slow, allowing Shaw to savor the way they pressed against her. When Root pulled back, her hands remained on the detective.

 

“Hell of a thank you,” Shaw said, licking her lips.

 

Root pinned her bottom lip under her teeth, and Shaw felt her hand slide up her jacket lapel, moving to grasp the back of her neck. Root leaned forward once again, close enough that her breath went into Shaw's mouth when she spoke. Shaw felt intoxicated, either from the liquor that she now tasted, or the allure of Root herself.

 

“Would you like to take me to bed?”

 

Sameen raised her eyebrows at the forwardness of the woman's words. There were many reasons why she should have said no, professionalism being one of them. It wasn't good practice to sleep with your business clients, after all. Though her conquests tended to be skewed towards men, if only because they were more easily manipulated, Shaw had no qualms about bedding a woman, as she had done on occasion. She had an itch, Root seemed willing to scratch, so she agreed.

 

Root led Shaw into the bedroom and drew the curtains closed with a shyness that was not there mere minutes ago. Shaw caught a twinkle in the woman's eyes, one that made her consider that this may not be the best idea. However, any doubts she might have had disappeared along with the fabric covering Root's shoulders. This woman was sculpted by gods. The sight stilled Shaw's own movements, and her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her shirt.

 

Root was an artist, and Shaw's skin her canvas. Shaw was at the woman's mercy quicker than she expected, and Root brought her there with the precision and skill one would expect from a professional. Still, Shaw was eager to return the favor, and did so with the same emotional detachment she held with all her bed partners. Root surrendered herself with a knowing smirk on her face that seemed to amplify the primal desire Shaw felt deep within herself.

 

Some time later, Shaw found herself sitting in her one-time lover's bed, really wishing she'd kept her cigarettes in her pants instead of her overcoat. While her body needed a few more minutes to recover, Shaw turned to gaze upon Root, eyes falling upon the woman's bare back. Aside from a few marks made by Shaw herself, she noticed several other scars on the woman's otherwise perfect skin, and wondered what might have caused such marks. Given her profession, one could assume that disgruntled client's had been the origin, but then Shaw's trained eye recognized some of them as being from a knife, or even a bullet.

 

It was irrelevant, she supposed, and will have no baring on Shaw's life going forward. Before she could will her aching muscles to move, Root stirred, turning to face Shaw.

 

“That didn't suck,” she said, her imp-like smirk still across her lips.

 

In fact, Shaw found the experience quite enjoyable, not that she had any intention of saying so. “I've had better.”

 

Root breathed out a laugh, perhaps not fooled by Shaw's words. “You wound me.”

 

Shaw shook her head, feeling her body relax. She looked to her clothes that lay scattered on the floor, exhaling through her nose. The high pitched sound of Root's telephone ringing in the other room pierced the silence, though the woman remained horizontal, gazing at Shaw.

 

“Aren't you going to answer that?”

 

Root looked towards the bedroom door as the ringing ceased. “I guess not,” she said, though she didn't appear to be bothered by missing the call.

 

“I should go,” Shaw sat up, finally ready to make her exit.

 

Root sat up as well, her legs moving to hang off the bed. “You're welcome to stay, Sameen. I do have some business to take care of, hence the telephone call.”

 

Shaw blinked, watching as Root reached for a robe that had been draped over a chair. It was white and the fabric held some sheen, likely made from silk. Shaw said nothing, Root turned to face her again as she tied the strings around her slight waist. There was only one kind of business a woman like Root had to deal with at this hour.

 

“Is there a problem?” Root asked.

 

Shaw had been staring at the other woman's bare legs, she realized. Truly they were made to be admired. She brought her gaze up to eye level. “Dine and dash is usually my thing.”

 

Root smiles, flashing her teeth briefly, before sauntering to the other side of her bed. She leans over, eyes locked on Shaw. “We should do this again.”

 

“I don't do repeats,” Shaw said flatly.

 

Root blinked, her smile now touching her eyes. She leaned forward to press her lips to Shaw's one final time, which the detective indulged. Root pulled back slowly, speaking her words into Shaw's mouth: “Thank you. For everything.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

After gathering her clothes and dressing while Root got ready in the bathroom, Shaw slipped away and left the apartment. Checking her wristwatch as she descended the stairs, the timepiece indicated that it was 1AM. The chilled air mercilessly whipped her coat around her legs as she took the last Lucky from her pocket, struggling to get the end lit. Thankfully, it only took until she was nearly finished the smoke for a taxi-cab to drive by.

 

Initially directing the driver to her home, Shaw asked that he stop at the 24-hour market that was one street over instead. She paid the man with some of the smaller bills she had left, making a mental note to visit the bank tomorrow, and entered the store.

 

Approaching the counter, Shaw asked the attendant for her brand of smokes, waiting as he disappeared into the back room to retrieve them. It was then she realized that this was the same market that sold liquor... Sameen could still taste the brandy Root had used in her coffee. She rubbed her neck with the palm of her hand, scanning the options until her eyes found a nice bottle of The Old Reserve. Before she knew it, she was walking out of the market with both her cigarettes _and_ the brandy, with barely a recollection of the purchase. She stopped, standing in the night air, looking as her hand held the neck of the bottle with a white knuckled-grip. Licking her lips, Shaw began shuffling towards her apartment.

 

It wasn't until she stepped through her own door that she felt exhaustion take a sudden and powerful hold over her body. Without removing her overcoat, Shaw headed for her reading chair and sank into it, sighing, still clutching the brandy. Sleep pulled her mind away almost immediately.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

_Sameen sits in a large bath, both arms hanging from either side of the tub. Her right hand is empty, in her left is a bottle of The Old Reserve. The cap is missing, the bottle feels lighter than when she purchased it earlier this evening. Her skin is tingling pleasantly, possibly from the warm water she sits in, but then alcohol always made her skin feel alive. The bathroom is small, steam hangs in the air, causing sweat to bead on her skin as if she were in a sauna. Her dark hair is all tied up to avoid getting too wet, and her eyes are closed as she relaxes._

 

_She sits for several minutes breathing slowly. Her body is heavy, but calm. Her racing mind is, for the moment, completely still. The door to the room opens, some of the steam is sucked outside, but then it closes again. Sameen doesn't open her eyes. She can hear footsteps, heels, clicking on the floor of the bathroom. They approach from her left side, circling around the tub, coming to stop behind her head. She doesn't move._

 

_Her senses are acute. Sameen hears the movement behind her as the intruder shuffles close to the tub, kneeling. Then, two hands are on her shoulders, kneading the skin at the base of her neck. The touch is not an unfamiliar one._

 

_The intruder leans closer yet, Sameen can feel their breath flutter by her left ear. Then, the person speaks:_

 

“ _What do you want?”_

 

_Her eyes open a sliver, but she sees nothing, the fog thick enough to leave her blind. The woman's hands move, curling around her neck. Her grip tightens and squeezes, so sudden and vicious that Sameen's body jerks forward—_

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Shaw's body twitches upright, gasping for breath. Her right hand flying up to loosen her necktie and unbutton her shirt, doing everything she can to bring more air in. Clutched still in her left hand was the bottle of brandy. Sealed, capped, and completely full. As her breathing leveled out, she looked around: cool light streamed in from her window, her bachelor apartment showing no sign of intrusion.

 

Standing from the chair, Shaw looked down at her own appearance: same clothes from yesterday, if only mildly ruffled from sleeping. She took one step close to her bed, swaying on her feet, head pounding from the hasty awakening. Stepping close to her bed, she removed the loose floorboard, depositing both the alcohol and the five hundred dollars from the envelope given to her by Root.

 

She shook any fleeting thoughts of the woman from her mind. Images of her writhing beneath Shaw's own body, or curling her long fingers around her neck—

 

Sameen pressed a palm to her temple, catching the time displayed on her wristwatch as being 9:41AM. She frowned, just now realizing how long she'd slept for. Replacing the floorboard, she stood, retrieved her hat, and left her quarters without taking into consideration her appearance. She felt like she would suffocate if she had stayed for a second longer.

 

As she walked towards the diner, the detective lit a cigarette, puffing on it deeply. Though after a few minutes, she felt a knot in her stomach that pulled at her insides with every step. She flicked the cigarette onto the snow without finishing it, stepping hazily into the diner.

 

The breakfast crowd had dwindled significantly, so Shaw was able to take a seat at the counter. The waitress approached soon after with a cup and coffee pot in hand. “You look dreadful, Sam,” she'd said, pouring the coffee. “Late night?”

 

“You could say that,” Shaw replied, voice hoarse. Without her usual splash of milk and sugar, Shaw drank from the cup, wincing as it burned the whole way down. Sally prepared to take the detective's order, but she waved her off, stomach still too twisted consider eating. At least for now.

 

Shaw spotted a folded copy of today's _Inquisitor_ on the counter and slid the paper towards herself. Since the situation with the women from The Fix had reached it's conclusion last night, perhaps reading about sports and the weather would help her get back into a normal routine.  Unfortunately, she was mistaken.

 

As Shaw turned the ninth page on the newspaper, she froze. The hand holding her cup of coffee stilled. There was a photograph of a familiar face in the newspaper. She read the blurb underneath it once, twice, three times, yet had trouble comprehending. Shaw felt like she was still in the foggy room she had dreamt about. Maybe she hadn't even woken up. She blinked hard, and read the simple caption underneath the image:

 

_Young woman found dead in her apartment._

 

And in the photograph was the face of Hanna Frey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt any newspaper would report a murder _that_ quickly but this is fiction so it's okay. Thanks for reading!
> 
> This title is from the song "It don't mean a thing (if it ain't got that swing)" by Ella Fitzgerald.


	6. The Lonesome Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw tries to understand the circumstance surrounding Hanna's death.

 

 

_January 14 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

_Young woman found dead in her apartment late yesterday evening. Officers were called on scene in response to a noise complaint from another resident. They arrived to find damage to the entrance way, and the body of Hanna Frey (pictured above). Coroner's and additional officers were summoned following the first-on-scene officer's initial assessment. The investigation is on-going._

 

The article was short, and didn't really tell Shaw anything about what happened. The investigation was still in progress, as the article had said, but she knew it wouldn't be a priority. People die all the time in this city, what's one more? A prostitute, no less. Yeah, something told Shaw that this case would be cold in no time. Still, it unsettled her, and looking at the photograph—the same one she'd seen in Carter's file—was like looking into the face of a ghost.

 

Shaw folded the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. Standing from the stool she threw money down for the coffee she'd abandoned and left without another word. She walks straight towards the telephone booth at the end of the block. Stepping inside and shutting the glass door, Shaw ripped the receiver from it's handle and inserted a dime with more force than necessary.

 

She dialed the number for the jazz club, waiting as it rang again and again. The glass booth muffled the gusting wind from outside, making it seem like she was waiting in limbo for someone to pick up. Finally, the secretary answered, however Shaw wasn't interested in speaking with her. “Put Zoe on the phone. It's Shaw.”

 

“ _I'm sorry, Miss Shaw, but Miss Morgan is unavailable._ ”

 

“Cut the crap,” Shaw hissed, squeezing the receiver. “I need to talk to her. Now.”

 

“ _I can pass a message alon—_ ”

 

Shaw slammed the receiver down, “fucking useless...”

 

Desperate for more information, Shaw also used the payphone in an attempt to contact Root. The woman was connected to both Zoe and Hanna, and even though their tryst still burned in Shaw's mind, she could put it aside in order to get information.

 

However, her attempts to telephone Root had failed as well. Frustrated, Shaw exited the telephone booth and hailed a taxi-cab, heading in the direction of Hanna Frey's apartment. She had never actually been inside, she remembered the building from the drive last week, and was eager to learn all she could about her death.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Only one police car remained at the building when Shaw arrived, and she wasn't sure what that meant for the investigation. She walked up the stairs to Hanna's unit, only to be stopped by a uniformed policeman tasked with making sure no wanderers came through.

 

“Private investigator,” Shaw said, flashing her silver shield to the man. Without a second glance, he nodded and let her walk by.

 

As she drew closer, the damage to Hanna's door was visible, the wood splintering as if it had been kicked in. Shaw was examining the wood frame until a voice caught her attention.

 

“What are you doing here?” Officer Carter asked. She looked to the direction of the voice and saw her policewoman friend standing inside the apartment, notepad in hand.

 

Shaw walked inside, looking around. Similar to Root's apartment, Hanna had a designated sitting area and fireplace, as well as a bay window. Though she did not have the balcony or piano, Hanna had a large desk facing the glass, which Shaw assumed she used to read or write. The scattering of papers on the floor near the desk was the only real sign of struggle so far. Shaw could see police tags for relevant markers, and various pieces of evidence items in plastic bags on top of the glass coffee table.

 

“Can you tell me what happened?” Shaw asked. Carter closed her notebook with a sigh. She hesitated before speaking, as if wondering if she should share the information.

 

“Call came in after midnight. Her neighbor complained about hearing shouting between a man and a woman. The door was already kicked in when the officers got here after one o'clock. They're thinking robbery gone wrong.”

 

“Why'd they take so long to get here?”

 

“Noise complaints aren't usually a priority. The elderly woman who made it has a history of non-emergencies. When we questioned her, she also reported seeing the victim arrive home with a male companion around 11PM.”

 

Shaw sighed, rubbing her forehead. A one hour response time doesn't inspire much confidence. Another detail about the story was curious: if Hanna _invited_ a male companion into the home, and he was the suspect, why was the door kicked _in_? “What about the body?”

 

Joss gestured to an outlined area on the floor next to the writing desk. “Officers found her here. Bruising was already starting to form around her neck, making the apparent cause of death strangulation.”

 

Shaw glanced around the apartment again, walking through the door leading into the bedroom. For a suspected robbery gone wrong, there weren't many things out of place. Desk drawers closed, bookshelf in pristine condition, bed still made. Shaw returned to the living area, looking to where the evidence was sitting. Also on the glass table was wine for two.

 

“Signs of sexual assault?”

 

Carter shook her head, “aside from some blood underneath her fingernails and bruising on her neck, nothing stood out on the initial assessment. We'll know more once the coroner can look at her.” Shaw made to reach for one of the evidence bags, but her friend stopped her. “I've answered enough of your questions, Shaw. It's time to came clean with me.”

 

She stared at the policewoman. “About?”

 

“This,” Carter gestured with her arms. “First you ask me to investigate Hanna Frey, then a week later she's dead. We found a black book among Hanna's possessions with a list of dates, times, and _names_. Then you come in here and ask about sexual assault. Be honest with me, Shaw, did you know that she was a prostitute?”

 

Shaw kept her voice calm and level, despite her friend's questioning. “She was a client of mine.”

 

“Were you a client of _hers_ , too?”

 

Shaw furrowed her brows at the accusation. “No. Carter, listen to me. Hanna hired me because of a problem she was having with her employer.”

 

“You mean her pimp.”

 

“No—”

 

“Give me his name, Shaw.”

 

“I can't do that.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“It wasn't the pimp,” she said. It was her gut feeling, but she couldn't be certain until she had a chance to speak with Zoe.

 

“It's _always_ the pimp, Shaw. You would know that if you bothered to become a real cop.” Carter's face twisted, regretting the words as she spoke them. Shaw was unfazed; police academy had been Cole's dream, not hers. “That was... out of line.”

 

Shaw took the pack of cigarettes from her overcoat and placed one between her lips, lighting it with her metal lighter. She inhaled and blew the smoke out slowly. “I'll be by the station later to read your full report,” she took a step towards the door, “and I'll be looking at that evidence, too.”

 

She walked from Hanna's apartment without another glace to Carter. At least the conversation had shed some light on what happened. Merely a candle in a dark room, but it was something.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Shaw stepped back on to the street, flicking her cigarette butt away. At first she wasn't sure what her next move should be, luckily it became clear when she saw John leaning against the brick of Hanna's building. The driver was wearing his typical black suit, with a long black overcoat and black leather gloves.

 

“Come with me,” he'd said when Shaw approached him. She was about to tell him how sick she was of being dragged around by these people, however she needed to see Zoe, so she kept her mouth shut.

 

This was the first occasion when Shaw was in the car alone. John wasn't much for conversation, which she was grateful for, as it gave her a chance to figure out what she was going to say when they arrived.

 

John drove the town car into the back lot of The Fix. Shaw didn't wait for him to turn the engine off before she opened the door and stepped outside. It was snowing so she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her overcoat, walking towards the building. John directed her to use the back entrance, as the club was not yet open, so she followed the man in the suit instead.

 

The club didn't look much different in the day, and Shaw watched as staff members took down chairs, cleaned tables, and wiped counter tops. John took her into where the back offices were, knocking once on a heavy door before pushing it open. At the large oak desk sat Zoe, she had several files and books open on her desk, as well as a lamp, telephone, a small radio, and a glass of what Shaw assumed was wine.

 

“Starting early?” Shaw said as she stepped into the office proper, John remained behind her, shutting the door.

 

Zoe gestured to the seat across from hers, and Sameen took it. “I know why you telephoned here. I didn't kill Hanna.”

 

“Oh, I don't know...” Shaw took a cigarette from her pocket and lit the tip. “Maybe you just couldn't stand to lose her to Los Angeles.”

 

“The girls mean everything to me, detective, whether you believe it or not. You think I would let her go, only to have her murdered a week later?”

 

Despite Carter's _it's always the pimp_ mantra, Shaw could recognize the sorrow present on Zoe's face. It could be a farce, she supposed but she seemed genuine in her innocence, at least in the case of the murder. Prostitution was still illegal, after all.

 

Shaw blew smoke to the ceiling, leaning forward in her chair. “Tell me what you know, then.”

 

Zoe told Shaw the details of her night. How she stayed until the club was closed like she always does. Even though one of her musicians requested to leave early for personal reasons, the set finished beautifully, she remarked. She had spoken to Hanna earlier in the day regarding her travel arrangements to Los Angeles. Zoe was sorting out the itinerary with an associate of hers to ensure that Hanna had the best journey possible. Her train was to leave in a few days, and she wasn't supposed to be working, yet Zoe found out she had taken a client for the night.

 

Now, Shaw knew Zoe allowed her employees to keep their own schedule, but what she didn't know was how frequently they communicated. After every client they entertained, the women are supposed to check in with Zoe's answering service, the woman herself, or in emergency situations, doctor Tillman. Apparently Hanna hadn't checked in after her job. Zoe also tried to call in her special consultant, but given the late hour there was no answer.

 

When they first met, Hanna had told Shaw of Zoe's connections throughout the whole city, and the detective hadn't realized the scale of that until now. Zoe had someone within the NYPD feeding her the details of the 9-1-1 call from Hanna's neighbor. When she heard about it, she and John rushed over to investigate and were the ones who found her dead.

 

“So _you_ kicked the door in?” Shaw turned to John, who shrugged. She looked back to Miss Morgan.

 

“I was worried when Hanna didn't answer her phone,” she paused, drinking the rest of her wine. “Seeing her lying on the floor was something I wont be able to forget.”

 

Shaw nodded slowly, flicking ash into the tray on the desk. “What happened next?”

 

“I wanted to take a look around to see if we could figure out what went on, but New York's finest was just around the corner. We had to get out of there.”

 

“You just left her?”

 

Zoe hardened her dark eyes at the detective. “I resent that, Shaw. I didn't want to leave her, but I had to think of the consequences of being caught in her apartment. Now I need to take care of Hanna from the sidelines.”

 

Shaw sucked on her cigarette. Obviously she wasn't able to take care of Hanna last night, otherwise she wouldn't be dead. She considered Zoe's words, ultimately deciding that she believed her story about what happened. Although the true cause of death was still a mystery, Shaw hoped that once she read the full police report she would finally get the closure she desired.

 

“Okay, I believe you,” Shaw said, snuffing her cigarette. She stood from the chair, intending to make her exit when Zoe stood up as well.

 

“Will you solve her murder?”

 

Since the day she got involved in this mess, Shaw wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. She hoped that was the case when she saw Hanna in the diner, it wasn't. Or maybe after her encounter with Root, but that wasn't the end either. Now, despite feeling an obligation to find out what happened to the young woman, Shaw couldn't bring herself to say yes. “Best I can do is update you again after I've seen the police report.”

 

For the first time that night, Zoe's lips twisted in her usual smirk. “I'll take it.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

Refusing John's offer to drive her, Shaw took a taxi-cab from The Fix instead, first stopping at her apartment to get some of the cash she had stored earlier. She paused as the bottle of brandy caught her eye, and she took a moment to run her fingertips over the glass. She licked her lips, remembering how the liquor tasted when Root had kissed her.

 

The taxi, still waiting outside, honked it's horn, effectively pulling her from the reverie. Grabbing some cash from the box and putting it back down in the floor, Shaw hastily left her apartment once again.

 

Briefly stopping at the bank to break down her cash again, Shaw eventually directed the driver to take her to the police station. Shaw paid the man, throwing an extra few bucks for his trouble, and exited the car.

 

She walked to where Carter was working, taking the seat across from her as she'd done so last week. The police woman seemed to be in the process of completing her report. Shaw could see her stapling the supplementary documents from the coroner, and the other officers to her own report. She held the paper out to Shaw.

 

“The time of death was set at approximately 12:30AM, the cause being asphyxia due to the strangulation,” Carter said as Shaw began to read. “Initial findings from the coroner's suggest she had been drinking, but was not intoxicated. No semen or other foreign fluids were found in her body.”

 

“Suspect?”

 

“Likely the man whom she was seen letting in.”

 

“What about the blood under her nails?”

 

Carter shrugged, “I put in a request to have it tested and compared to the samples we have on file, but...” She trailed off. Shaw knew that could take months, as the department likely considered this a low priority murder.

 

Shaw read the details in the report. Hanna was wearing the same outfit she had on when she came to the diner, except her emerald ring was not listed. It could have been an oversight, then again the piece was very distinct, even now Shaw could recall the stone clearly in her mind. She flipped to the page that listed everything seized from the young girl's home: purse containing her wallet, identification, and keys; a pearl necklace and golden earrings; a lock box containing three thousand dollars cash, and; a 'black book' containing information believed to be related to her work as a prostitute. Shaw noticed there was a mark next to the last entry, and asked Carter what it meant.

 

“The book was signed out by another officer shortly after I came back to the station.” Carter shuffled through one of her desk drawers before producing a new sheet of paper. “Constance Ward.”

 

Shaw furrowed her brow. That was the one piece of evidence she really wanted to get her hands on. She'll have to try later. “Do you find it strange that the robbers left the cash box?”

 

“They could have run out of time. Girl puts up a fight, takes longer to put her down than expected, the suspect only manages to get the cash from her purse.”

 

Shaw nodded, but she knew that the suspect was gone before then. Zoe hadn't seen anyone, and she was there before the police were. “What about the ring?”

 

“What ring?”

 

“Hanna always wore an emerald ring on her middle finger, but it wasn't found on her or in the apartment.”

 

“I can get in touch with the officer who was first on the scene. Though I'm not sure what good that'll do,” Shaw looked at the policewoman curiously. “It was Simmons. And he isn't exactly known for following the rules.”

 

Shaw folded the report closed and placed it down on the desk. “You think he took it?”

 

Carter shrugged, “it's possible.”

 

Preparing to leave, Shaw thanked her friend and stood from the chair. “Telephone me once Officer Ward checks the notebook back into evidence.”

 

“I will, and Shaw?”

 

“What?”

 

“Maybe take it easy for a few days? You look like hell.”

 

Shaw touched two fingertips to her brow, saluting her friend. With that, she left the police station, feeling the unrest from this morning creeping back into her body.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Before she returned to her office for the night, Shaw made one final stop at the diner to get some food. It had been some time since she ate, and the detective was able to polish off a burger and fries with her normal exuberance, also enjoying one soda and one cup of coffee before she paid for her meal and left.

 

After the brisk walk from the diner, she entered her office and locked the door behind her, not interested in entertaining any walk-ins for the foreseeable future.

 

Shaw sat at her desk and dialed the number for The Fix. Surprisingly, Zoe herself was the one who answered the phone, and Shaw spent several minutes relaying the information she had received from Carter. The details weighed on the club owner, that much was clear. Zoe spent some time talking about Hanna, venting her emotions at the detective who nodded in stoic silence. Though she didn't really understand the need for the conversation, she was able to recognize that Zoe probably just wanted an ear, and Shaw's was currently the most convenient. Shaw sucked back an entire cigarette before the woman finished.

 

“Before I forget,” Shaw interjected, “did you take Hanna's ring?”

 

“ _Her emerald?_ ” Zoe seemed surprised at the question.

 

“The police didn't find it on her or in the home. I assumed you took it when you were there.”

 

A beat passed before the woman answered: “ _No..._ ” damn it. “ _I gave that to her, you know. All of my girls have one like it._ ” a pause, “ _she wore it everywhere._ ”

 

After a few moments of sad quiet from the jazz club owner, she said her goodbyes to Shaw, inviting her to come by the club sometime to listen to music or have a drink. Shaw thanked her and hung her telephone back on the hook.

 

More out of habit than necessity, Shaw took the black notebook from her pocket and wrote down all the additional details she had received from both Carter and Zoe tonight. Flipping through the pages in her notebook, the detective came across the page where Hanna had written down contact details for The Fix. She could clearly recall the young woman sitting across from her, scribbling numbers in a fluid motion. Sameen sighed, shaking her head at the girl's fate.

 

If all the perpetrator wanted was money, why kill her? It was meaningless, like all other crimes in the city. And like everything else that people fight and die for. It made her sick, meanwhile anger bubbled up inside her, coursing suddenly through her body. Shaw stood from her desk and swiped her notebook, watching the papers flutter as it hit the wall, then the ground. She brought her fist down upon the desk as hard as she could, hearing the items inside rattling; the metal gun, papers and pens, matches, rye—

 

She paused, her anger flipping off as if controlled by a light switch, now replaced with a stillness. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the ground ahead. Shaw reaches into her trouser pockets, feeling for her key ring. Lowering herself to one knee she finds the key to unlock the drawer in her desk, pulling it open, careful not to disturb the contents. She finally looks down slowly, until her eyes are met with a large bottle of Hunter Rye.

 

Fourteen days clean and she felt no different than when she spent her time sitting in a bar until the sun came up. Even as she avoided that which helped her to forget, if only a little, nothing in the world had changed. Regardless of whether she ended her streak, people in this city were going to die; If she stayed on the wagon for the rest of her life, young women would still be murdered in their homes. So then, she wondered, what was the point? Was there even a point to be made?

 

Sameen blinked. She was now standing over her decanter and crystal glasses. The seal on the bottle was cracked, and the cork was in her hand. The strong scent floated up to her nose and she tipped the bottle, the amber liquid cascading into the glass. She set the bottle down next to the decanter, tossing the cap onto the table as well. Sameen's hand curled slowly around the cool crystal, first her pinky, then her ring finger, followed by her middle and index fingers.

 

Before she could raise the glass even an inch, someone knocked loudly on her office door. Shaw released the glass, her eyes remaining on the liquid inside, still rippling after being poured.

 

“We're closed,” Shaw said, hopefully loud enough for the person to hear. The knocking ceased, and she was almost able to breathe a sigh of relief. That is, until she heard the knob turning.

 

The knob of her _locked_ door.

 

Shaw dashed behind her desk, pulling open the drawer and reaching for her gun. Although it was unloaded, it should deter whoever was stupid enough to break into her office. The door opened slowly as Shaw raised her weapon, the intruder stepping in with confidence. The tension in Shaw's body gave way to annoyance and mild surprise when she recognized the figure in her office proper. It was difficult to forget those long legs, after all.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Root closed the door behind her, stepping slowly towards Shaw's desk. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the single glass of rye, then to the gun still in the detective's hands. Finally, she looked to Shaw.

 

“Kiss kiss to you, too, Sameen.” Root walked up to the desk, laying her palms against the wood and leaning forward. Her eyes, while still striking, lacked some of their playfulness. Shaw attributed this to the death of her friend. “We need to talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is from a song played by Benny Goodman.


	7. Night And Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and Root work together to investigate Hanna's death.

 

 

 

_January 14 th, 1947_

_NYC_

  

 

“We need to talk.”

 

“No, we don't,” Shaw replied, gun still in hand.

 

Root's eyes flicked to the weapon, but she didn't seem to be bothered by it. In fact, she reached out and pushed the barrel down. “Put that away, detective. I need your help.”

 

Sighing, Shaw lay the gun flat on the surface of her desk, crossing her arms tightly. She recalled the last time Root barged in here and asked for her help. “What's with you and your poor listening skills?”

 

Root carried a satchel over her shoulder, like the one she had seen on the newsgirl, she wore a long black dress and a heavy brown overcoat. Her brown hair was loose and coiled, and her lips were painted red. Root reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of cash. She waved it in the space between the two women before slamming it down onto the desk.

 

Shaw didn't break eye contact, even as Root tossed what she estimated was at least five thousand dollars cash onto her desk. Instead, the detective spoke slowly, her voice low. “What do you want?”

 

“Help me find who killed Hanna.”

 

Shaw couldn't help the scoff escaping her lips. The hard expression on Root's face indicated that she was not joking. “One of her clients?”

 

“You don't know that.”

 

Sitting down at her desk, Shaw propped her feet up on the corner and leaned back, hands folded over her stomach. “That's how these things go. Besides, we'll never know for sure.”

 

Root shook her head, “you're wrong. We can find her killer if we work together.”

 

The beginnings of a headache were forming behind Shaw's eyes, now wishing she would have downed the rye when she had the chance. She rubbed her temple with a fingertip. “You and I can't do any more than the blues can. They have everything locked down.”

 

Unfortunately, it seemed like Root wasn't letting this go. “Do not underestimate me, Sameen. Information is my business.”

 

“Really? I thought it was sex.”

 

“Are you finished?”

 

Their gaze was held for a few moments of tension. Root, unwilling to take no for an answer, bore her eyes deep into Shaw's. Though she ended up breaking the connection first, reaching into her bag once again. Shaw thought she was going to wave more money in her face, instead her long fingers came back holding a black notebook.

 

Sliding her feet off the corner of her desk, Shaw leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at the book. Then, she looked back to Root, “is that...?”

 

The other woman's gazed softened for the first time this evening, “Sameen, Please. You're my only hope.”

 

She was a breath away from washing her hands of everything. She could tell Root to leave and never bother her again, toss her notebook into a fire, and drink until she couldn't remember this last week. The look in Root's eyes, perhaps the only true and earnest one Shaw had seen in the strange woman, was enough to sway the detective's decision.

 

Shaw stood from her seat and pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated that Root had managed to pull her back into this. “All right,” she sighed, “meet me tomorrow morning.”

 

Root's smile was genuine and warm. She stuffed the notebook back into her satchel. “Thank you, detective.”

 

“Yeah yeah,” Shaw said, waving her hands to shoo the woman from her office. “Now get the hell out of here. And don't make me regret it this.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

_January 15 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Shaw left her office shortly after Root did, returning home for some much needed rest before she had to work with the woman on solving Hanna's murder. She developed a throbbing headache just at the thought. Before leaving the office, she made sure to dump the drink she had poured for herself down the drain, looking to avoid the unexpected temptation the next time.  Once at home, Shaw collected two hundred dollars from underneath the floorboards and walked to the bank. She filled out a check and addressed it to Mrs Cole and dropped it into the mailbox just outside. Sighing, she realized that she couldn't put off breakfast any longer, and made her way to the diner.

 

She spotted Root immediately, siting in the corner booth facing towards the door. As soon as Shaw walked in, the woman lifted her arm in the air and beckoned the detective. Removing her hat and overcoat, Shaw shuffled towards the booth and slid across from Root, who had the newspaper laid out on the table. 

 

“Good morning, detective,” she said, turning the page. “Did you sleep well?”

 

“Would have been better if I didn't have to meet _you_ ,” Shaw grumbled, trying to spot the waitress. Root looked up from the paper, smiling.

 

“Very funny,” Root followed Shaw's gaze into the diner, then looked back to her. “I took the liberty of ordering for you already. I hope you don't mind.”

 

Root continued to prove that she knew much more about Shaw than she ought to. Which one of them was the detective here? “Pretending to know everything about me is gettin' on my nerves.”

 

Taking her coffee cup with both hands, Root took a small drink, smile still in place. “It's not pretend. I told you last night: information is my business.”

 

The waitress approached the table with a stack of blueberry pancakes, as well as a cup that she filled with coffee. Finally, Shaw had something to distract her from Root and her... well, everything.  “Hi there Sam,” the waitress drawled, “your friend put your order in as soon as she got here. Ain't that the sweetest thing?” Shaw caught a wry look from Root across the table, eyes narrowed playfully.

 

“It's definitely something.”

 

“You sure I can't get anything for you, honey?” The waitress asked Root. Shaw rolled cutlery from her napkin, and placed the white fabric across her lap.

 

“No,” Root's smile was bright and easy. “Thank you, Sally.”

 

Shaw watched the waitress match Root's expression, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder before attending to another table. _What the hell?_   “You two are pretty friendly.”

 

Root took another drink from her coffee, seemingly content to watch Shaw eat. “No one is immune to my charm, Sameen. You should know that already.” A beat, then: “we share a common interest.”

 

Shaw couldn't imagine what that interest might be, or when they would have had the chance to discuss it. Instead she focused on her breakfast, fluffy pancakes filled with tart blueberries, perfectly drizzled with syrup. Every so often she would glance up to find Root staring at her with sparkling eyes and a tilted head. She didn't even have the decency to look away after being caught.

 

“Creepy...” Shaw mumbled, mouth full.

 

“What's that, detective?”

 

“I said you're fucking creepy,” Root merely shrugged, leaning back in her seat and sipping her coffee once again.

 

A few minutes later, once Shaw had finished eating and was now working on her second cup of coffee, she started to think about how the pair might begin their investigation. Once the table was cleared, Root produced the black book from her satchel, opening it and sliding it across the table. Shaw took her own notebook from inside her coat pocket.  Shaw spun the book so she could read the entries. It was very detailed, first and last names, dates and times, even the client's occupation was sometimes written down. Once again, she recalled Hanna writing in her own notebook just days before she had been killed.

 

“The final pages are missing,” Root reached across the table to flip the book to the last page. The ring on her finger looked blue today with some flecks of pink, and her fingernails were still painted black.

 

Shaw wondered if the johns knew just how much information the women kept on them when they were hired. If the killer was a client of hers, it would make sense that they would rip out the page that had their name on it. “Look at this,” Shaw began, flipping back a few entries, “more are torn out from the middle. Maybe the client was a repeat?”

 

Root nodded thoughtfully, “either that, or they didn't want someone else being incriminated once the police seized the book. But then, why not take the whole thing?”

 

Shaw added more milk to her coffee before taking another drink. “No time. That's what the police think anyway. It would explain why Hanna's place wasn't turned upside-down.”

 

“And why they left the cash box.”

 

Shaw narrowed her eyes. The cash box being left behind was information that, as far as she knew, was in the police report _only_. Unless the newspaper had become extremely forthcoming, there was no way Root should know that. Sameen decided not to ask, seeing as she was likely to receive a non-answer anyway.

 

In reading the list of client's Hanna kept, Shaw could see something of a pattern. Names that recurred, on certain dates, or men who appeared to be coworkers, having the same job description listed. If they assumed the murderer was the client whose name had been torn out, they might also make the assumption that this person was a regular client. And not just with Hanna.

 

“Recognize any of the names?” Shaw slid the book back across the table. Root took it and flipped through the pages, her brown eyes scanning the words. “Do all of you use this level of detail in the books?”

 

Root's eyebrow quirked up, but she didn't look from the book. “Zoe does ask that they keep the records as precise as possible.”

 

“Okay,” Shaw nodded, tucking her own notebook back into her jacket. “I need to meet your co-workers. If the murderer was a regular with Hanna, there's a chance he saw some of the other girls too. I might be able to use the information in _their_ black books to complete the pattern.”

 

“Good thinking, Shaw.”

 

“We can start with yours, if you have it with you.”

 

“Oh, I don't have one.”

 

“You don't?”

 

“We should get moving,” Root took Hanna's book and returned it to it's place in her satchel, and drew out a few bills to pay for breakfast. Shaw blinked, her curiosity flaring at what she had just learned, however she was distracted when Root slid from the booth and put her brown jacket on.

 

“Wait, what are you doing?”

 

Root tied a long white scarf around her neck, tucking it inside her coat before fastening the buttons. “Didn't you say you wanted to meet with the other girls?”

 

“Yeah... _I'm_ meeting with them,” Shaw said jabbing a finger into her own chest before pointing to Root. “You're not coming.”

 

“Yes, I am,” Root said. She leaned one hand on the table, the other was on her waist.

 

Shaw sighed. She envisioned the conversation loop that would occur if she tried to tell Root she couldn't come along. Considering the woman seemed to do whatever she pleased regardless, Shaw decided to stay quiet in this instance. Shaw was thankful that she was at least learning to avoid such conversations, seeing as the _thought_ of the argument was enough to give her a migraine. She stood from the booth and regarded Root.

 

“Fine,” she collected her hat and overcoat. “But you're paying for the cab.”

 

Root smiled that _damn smile_ again, collecting her satchel from the booth. “We're not taking a cab.”

 

“We're not?”

 

Root gestured for Shaw to follow her out of the diner. To the detective's surprise, Root had led her around to the back to where a black car was parked. Producing the keys, Root unlocked the vehicle and slid inside. With sharp lines, large circular headlights, and the word _Studebaker_ above the grille, it wasn't the worst thing to be driving around in. Shaw knew that Zoe had a nice motor vehicle at her disposal, perhaps more than one, so it was reasonable to assume that Root might have access to her fleet. Shaw pulled open the passenger side door and lowered herself inside, thankful that the car was actually more spacious than it appeared. The seats were dark red leather, and the dashboard was accented with white along the radio knobs and steering wheel. The only thing that took away from the sleek design of the vehicle itself were the fuzzy dice that hung from the rear view mirror. Shaw reached up and squeezed one with her hand.

 

“Really, Root?”

 

Root shrugged and turned the key, the 'Stude roaring to life. “Where to first?”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Using the notes she had taken before, Shaw refreshed her memory regarding the details of each of the different women Zoe had employed in this area. The first stop was the building that Harper Rose lived in as it was the closest to their current location. Root parked in the very front and turned off the ignition before stepping out of the car. Shaw followed suit, drawing her coat closer to her body.

 

As the two walked inside the building, Shaw checked her notes to see what floor they needed to go on, “she's on the second,” she'd said to Root.

 

Shaw headed for the stairs, pausing when she saw Root stop in front of the elevator door. The detective swallowed hard at the thought of the small space, somehow being in there with Root of all people would definitely make it more difficult. To her relief, Root joined her at the stairs without protest or remark, and together they climbed.

 

Harper greeted them almost immediately after they knocked on her door. She was a tall, dark skinned woman, with long hair in tight curls. She wore long pants and a sweater, as well as a large ring on her middle finger. It was just like the one on both Hanna and Root, however her stone had been crystal clear. A diamond for her and an emerald for Hanna? Zoe certainly didn't skimp on her girls' jewelry. Root's ring seemed to be a different color each time she noticed it, or perhaps she had more than one? Something to ask her about later.

 

Turning her attention back to their host, Harper brought fresh coffee for everyone, and they gathered in the sitting room to begin their questioning. Zoe's unit's were all formatted in a similar style; sitting area, fireplace, big window, and attached kitchen and bedroom. The furniture and arrangements were the only thing that made each apartment unique.

 

Thankfully, Harper was forthcoming with information, her personality struck Shaw as one that was casual, easy-going, as well as being very intelligent and witty. When she heard that Root and (reluctantly) Shaw were trying to determine who the murderer was, she was happy to provide any details that might be relevant to the case, including the book of her clients. While Shaw combed through the names, she did find some that appeared in both Hanna and Harper's notes. Then again, she also found clients that were unique to each woman, in the end she wasn't convinced there was a pattern to be discovered. Perhaps once they spoke to the others in the area it would become clearer.

 

At least, that's what she'd hoped.

 

Shaw scribbled all the names down in her own book in order to cross reference them later and once their coffee had been depleted, she stood and prepared to exit. The detective was eager to get all the legwork done as soon as possible. For a moment she wondered what the _actual_ police were doing about the murder.

 

“You in tonight?” Harper said as Shaw and Root prepared to leave, “they're really dying out there without you.” The woman winced her own choice of words, meanwhile Shaw looked at her with a puzzled expression, until realizing that she was talking to Root. “Sorry.”

 

Root waved her off, “it's all right. I'll be there.”

 

“Great,” Harper steered them towards the door. She regarded Shaw this time: “I hope you get the bastard. Hanna was a sweetheart.”

 

“Yeah,” Shaw nodded.

 

Together they left the apartment, mentally crossing Harper Rose off the list of persons of interest. As they stepped back into the cold, Shaw took a cigarette from her coat and lit the tip. She and Root got back into the motor vehicle, and soon she was driving in the direction of the next house. Shaw had cranked the window down in order to keep the smoke from lingering in the car, and flicked the cigarette out once she was finished.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Their next visit was to the apartment that Sofia Campos lived in. Parking across the street this time, the two women exited the vehicle and entered the building together. Before Shaw had a chance to check the notes she had on Sofia, Root was pressing the call button on the elevator.

 

“She's up on ten,” Root had said, “better to take the lift.”

 

Shaw tried to think of a logical reason to take the stairs instead, but the high pitched _ding_ signaling the elevator's arrival stopped her. With her fingertips, she grabbed the knot of her tie and pulled it left and right until it came free of her collar.

 

“Shaw? Is something the matter?”

 

“No,” inhaling a breath as subtly as she could, Shaw stepped into the elevator. Root followed behind her and pressed the button to their corresponding floor. The lift rumbled and began it's ascent, meanwhile Shaw concentrated on keeping her breathing level and even.

 

Every minute felt like a lifetime in this box. The ticking of the second-hand on her wristwatch was sharp and booming. The _ding_ as the elevator climbed higher and higher was loud enough to pierce her skull. Shaw squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them again she was surrounded by wood splinters and dirt. Her breath caught, and she blinked hard in an attempt to will the image away. Clenching her teeth, Shaw reminded herself that she was not in Europe anymore. She was in an elevator, not trapped underground. She exhaled sharply, reaching up free the highest button on her shirt, hands in tremor. Sameen could have slapped herself for being so affected.

 

Root spoke, if for no other reason than to distract Shaw from the lift. “I'm afraid of heights myself.”

 

“What?” Shaw managed. The detective tightly crossed her arms and tucked her head down, focusing on her shoes. How were they not on the tenth floor yet?  

 

Root touched her shoulder lightly and she flinched, “it's all right,” she said. “We're here.”

 

Shaw pushed herself through the doors as soon as they opened, trying not to gasp for breath so obviously. She took the handkerchief from her pocket, Root's in fact, and dabbed her neck with the cloth. Root eyed the fabric wryly, though the quip Shaw might have expected never came. The pair walked together to the door marked 23 and the detective knocked on the wood.

 

The door opened to reveal a young woman with long dark hair and blue eyes. Shaw immediately got the impression that she was not happy to see the two of them, her eyes especially narrow when she noticed Root.

 

Sofia pointed her chin at Root as she spoke, “what are you doing here, _louca_?” She asked, her words tinted by a foreign accent, possibly South American given the term she used. “I already turned in my cut.”

 

Root crossed her arms, “that's not why we're here.” Wait, what were they talking about? “Let us in.”

 

Begrudgingly, Sofia stepped aside and the two women entered her apartment, though she stood in front of them at the landing, preventing them from going much further. Her arms crossed tightly, and Shaw caught a glimpse of the ring on her finger, which was a pearl. “What do you want?”

 

Shaw briefly looked to Root, the tension between the women was palpable. “We're looking into the death of one of your co-workers, Hanna Frey.”

 

Sofia raised a sharp eyebrow, finally regarding Shaw herself. “Why come to me? Look no further than Zoe's _cachorro_ here. For all we know, she's the one who did it.”

 

The detective's eyes widened slightly, her head turning back towards Root. Her jaw was tightly clenched, eyes darkened, staring hard at the woman in front of them. Although Shaw wasn't exactly sure what Sofia had called her, she could guess that Root was more bothered by the implication that she had something to do with Hanna's death.  Root opened her mouth to retort, but Shaw grasped her elbow tightly to silence the remark which would have surely made their task more difficult. “Look, if we could just see your client list? We need to compare the names against Hanna's to see if there's a pattern. Five minutes, and we're out of your hair.”

 

Sofia looked to Root then back to Shaw before she sighed. “Wait here.”

 

While she disappeared into the other room, Shaw considered asking Root to explain the obvious hostility between the two of them, or even the comment the young woman made about turning in her money, unfortunately Sofia was back before she had the chance. Shaw thanked her for the book, flipping it open to read the names listed. Sofia's handwriting was somewhat difficult to decipher, thankfully Shaw was able to recognize a few of the entries. She drew her own notebook with the intention of copying them down when Sofia spoke up again:

 

“That's enough. You need to leave,” she held her hand out for the client list.

 

Shaw held the book out and the young woman snatched it back. “Why are you so...?”

 

“I give everything to Miss Morgan,” she began, “my money, time, and my loyalty. I don't owe anything else.” She narrowed her eyes at Root. “Especially not to you.”

 

Root matched her glare, surprising Shaw with the malice. “Watch yourself, princess. I'm sure you know what happens when people don't cooperate with me.”

 

What?

 

“Is that a threat, _louca_?” Sofia's posture became rigid.

 

Root stood straighter and stepped towards the young woman, “when I'm threatening you, you'll know it.”

 

“ _Okay_ ,” Shaw interjected, moving to stand next to them, “we're leaving.” She took Root's arm and steered her towards the door, opening it and exiting into the hallway without glancing back.

 

“That went well,” Root remarked after a beat, turning to walk down the hall.

 

Despite her _many_ questions regarding the brief exchange, Shaw merely shook her head and followed. She had a growing list of things to ask Root, she supposed this would have to be added on. The detective sighed, now realizing that they would be entering the elevator again, however, relief washed over her when she saw that Root was heading for the door to the stairwell instead.

 

Shaw hummed to herself before picking up her pace to meet the other woman. Maybe Root wasn't so bad after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Sofia so I'm not sure why she ended up so mean, but I do enjoy the tension between her and Root. During their dialogue, she calls Root "crazy," and refers to her as Zoe's "dog." 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> "Night and Day" sung by Ella Fitzgerald


	8. Cocktails for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's investigation hits a snag when another person is killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally wrote a chapter for a different fic yesterday when I was supposed to be finishing this one... Oops! 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_January 15 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Since they had such varying success speaking with two of Zoe's employees, Shaw decided to save the remaining ones for another date. Root added both Wendy McNally, and Frankie Wells had daytime clients as far as she knew, and therefore wouldn't be available for several hours anyway. Shaw sighed, thinking about how all this police work was mentally draining, although she had trouble deciding if it was the women, or just Root.

 

Though perhaps that judgment wasn't entirely fair anymore. Root may be cocky, roguish, and downright cryptic at times, she also showed herself to be surprisingly considerate. Something about her still made Shaw uneasy, however. Root was incredibly forthcoming with some pieces of information, yet distant with other things, which made it difficult to trust her. There was just so much that the detective couldn't figure out, and maybe she was better not knowing. In any case, Root was apparently needed at The Fix tonight, and offered to drive Shaw back to her office beforehand. Shaw's stomach chose that moment to speak up, apparently to remind her that she hadn't ate anything since this morning.

 

“Why don't you come with me?” Root asked as they drove. “You can eat at the club tonight.”

 

Shaw considered for a moment before replying. “If you're paying,” Shaw said, she could see Root smirk out of her peripheral vision. She had a fleeting thought about how she and Root had ignored the standard order of things, seeing as she was buying dinner _after_ they had spent the night together. Shaw decided that images of their encounter, while not unpleasant, were better left buried in her mind.

 

“It's a date, then,” Root added, pulling into the back lot of The Fix.

 

Shaw rolled her eyes. Comments like that certainly didn't help.

 

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

 

People were beginning to trickle into the club by the time they arrived, some taking seats at tables, others at the bar. Shaw also watched as a group of men headed for the hallway that was apparently “under construction”, and was tempted to join them and see if she could win some more money at the poker tables.

 

A young man approached Shaw to take her coat, and this time she agreed. He turned to Root after he'd taken the garment. “They're waiting for you in the back.”

 

“Thanks,” she replied, looking to Shaw. “I'll join you soon, detective. Sit where ever you like.”

 

Shaw feels something heavy settle over her when she's left alone. Was it caused by the slew of illegal activities taking place in this establishment? The fact that a young girl was murdered mere days ago and no one seemed to care? Or perhaps the wide variety of liquor bottles, all lined up against the wall directly in front of her. She thinks of the rye in her office, the one that she had almost drunk yesterday, and of the brandy now nestled under the bed in her home.

 

The scent pulls her in, without realizing it she's taken several steps towards the bar. She blinks, her palms feel numb. She counts her sober days. Twelve? No, fifteen. Fifteen days. God, it felt like months.

 

She's leaning against the counter when the bartender approaches and asks to take her order. His voice is muffled, the words difficult to make out over the ringing of her own ears, not to mention the bustle of patrons talking, or of the band setting up their instruments.

 

“Club soda,” she eventually said. The bartender turned away and Shaw pulled her gaze from the alcohol, choosing instead to watch the crowd. Men talked and laughed, they drank and ate. They kept their eyes on the women pouring their drinks or bringing them food. If Hanna's murder was planned, not a random crime, could the killer be in the midst?

 

She met the blue eyes of John, as a result he approached the bar as well. The bartender placed a clear glass in front of her with the fizzy soda, large spherical ice, and a lime stuck in the rim.

 

“Detective,” John said. Shaw simply nodded while tipping the glass to her lips. John's eyes scanned the room, as she had done, and he leaned against the counter, facing the door. She wondered for the first time if he also had a military past. “Zoe noticed you coming in with Root.”

 

“And?”

 

“She would like you to join her.”

 

Sighing, Shaw plucked the glass from the counter and followed the tall man to where Zoe's table was situated. The music started as she arrived, the band taking the same formation as when she'd first seen them: a woman singing, men on the string and drums, and another woman on the piano. Zoe smiled upon seeing her slide into the booth.

 

“Detective Shaw. Glad you decided to come over.”

 

“I get the feeling it wasn't really a choice.”

 

Zoe laughed at that, taking a sip from her wine glass. She beckoned a man wearing white to the table and proceeded to order her meal. Despite not having seen a menu, Shaw was assured that the kitchen would make anything she wanted. She ended up ordering an 8oz steak, cooked medium rare, with a baked potato on the side. The chef smiled as he wrote on the notepad he carried, telling her what a good choice she'd made.

 

“Correct me if I'm wrong, detective,” Zoe began, her lips curved in a smile, “I thought you said you weren't investigating Hanna's death?”

 

Shaw took another drink from her soda, “I didn't want to stand by while the police forgot about her.”

 

Zoe looked like she wanted to add something, but the words were cut off by the clapping of the crowd as the band finished their song. Shaw turned her head and watched the performers take a bow. The singer gestured to the woman at the piano, “please generous to Sam this evening.” Shaw's mouth fell open when the woman turned, finally facing the crowd.

 

“Son of a _bitch_.”

 

Sure enough, the pianist whom she had seen during her previous visits had been Root all along. Not only that, but this confirmed Shaw's fleeting theory that she and Samantha Groves were indeed the same person. Despite now knowing this, none of Shaw's lingering questions were really answered. Why does Sam Groves' file list her as deceased? Why change her name in the first place? Why be deceptive about her identity at all?  Root raised an arm, waving daintily at the people clapping. She even had the nerve to wink at Shaw when their eyes met. Unbelievable. The singer continued her praise: “Without her nimble fingers, my voice is truly empty.”

 

Shaw feels her face get warm, overcome with thoughts of said fingers entirely elsewhere. She took a drink from her soda as the band cleared the stage. Shaw could hear Zoe's soft chuckle from across the table, and she looked to see the woman watching her with a sparkle in her eyes.

 

“What?” Shaw growled, placing her now empty glass down.

 

“You had sex with her, didn't you?”

 

Shaw squeezed the glass in her hand so hard that she feared it would shatter. “...No.”

 

Zoe laughed again. “I had my suspicions after I found out you went to see her a few nights ago,” Zoe waved her hand after seeing Shaw's expression tighten. “It's all right. Kiss and tell isn't your game, I get it. Your bluff needs work, though.”

 

Leaning her head back against the booth, Shaw groaned. These people never failed to make her regret the decision to help them.

 

 

>

 

 

Thankfully the food arrived in good time, sparing the detective from having to look at the smug expression Zoe was wearing on her face. Once the table was cleared, Shaw ordered a coffee, while Zoe opted for more wine. She had to resist rolling her eyes when she spotted Root approaching. The _pianist_ had apparently changed after they arrived together, and was now wearing a red scoop neck dress with the sleeves resting above her elbow. Root had also taken the time to tie her hair up in a bun.

 

“Mind if I join you?” Root asked as she slipped into the booth next to Shaw. She pulled a pin from her hair and shook her head, sending brown locks down to her shoulders.

 

“I hear you're conducting an investigation,” Zoe supplied, eyeing Shaw.

 

Root went on to share their theory that whoever killed Hanna was likely to have been a previous client of hers, and by compiling a list of johns the girls have been seeing, they may be able to find perpetrator. When Root began explaining how they were visiting all the women, Zoe nodded thoughtfully, not surprised by the attitudes of both Harper and Sofia.

 

“Would it be easier if I showed you the master list?” Zoe said.

 

Shaw tipped her coffee cup to her lips, “what's the master list?”

 

Root spoke up, “at the end of each week, the girls turn in their client lists to be copied into the master book. That way, should there be a discrepancy with the original, Miss Morgan has the back up.”

 

Shaw put her cup down on it's saucer. “Any reason you didn't mention this earlier?” If she'd known about the list, they would have only had to make one stop today, not two.

 

“Maybe I wanted to spend the day with you,” Shaw rolled her eyes at that.

 

“The book,” Zoe interjected before Shaw could speak, “is locked in my office. I'm the only one who has access to it.”

 

Shaw sighed, “can't you make an exception?” Zoe and Root shared a look as the woman considered.

 

“Tell you what, I can have the entries copied for you,” she finished the rest of her wine and slid from the booth. “It will take time.”

 

Shaw thanked the owner for her eventual cooperation, and bid her good evening. Zoe promised that she would have someone working on copying the list as soon as possible, and that she would reach out once it was finished. This left Shaw alone with Root, and the detective was determined to get some answers. Or just _one_ , at least.

 

“You're the pianist.”

 

Root smirked, reaching up to signal the bartender. “I am.”

 

“Why didn't you tell me?”

 

A man arrived with a small glass bottle in hand. Twisting the cap off, the bartender placed it on the table in front of Root. She thanked him, taking the bottle in her hands and tipping it to her red lips. Shaw couldn't help be fascinated by her throat when she swallowed. “You didn't ask.”

 

Why had she expected anything different from Root? Shaw huffed, her other inquires forgotten for the moment, “actually, I think I've had about enough for tonight. Move.”

 

Since Root was sitting next to Shaw in the booth, she was effectively blocking her escape, and she seemed quite aware of it too. Her eyes lit up as she placed her beer bottle on the table, turning to fully face Shaw. “Why, detective, the night is still young.”

 

She looked at the woman, eyes hard. “Root.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Get out of the way.”

 

Root stared at her for a moment, smiling. Her eyes drifted from Shaw's own, falling to her lips, then to her hands still on the table. Eventually she let out a dreamy sigh, “I can't say no to you, I suppose.” The woman slid from the booth, allowing Shaw to follow suit. The band began playing again as she finally freed herself. She looked to Root, their difference in height much more apparent when standing side-by-side. “Would you share a dance with me tonight, Sameen?”

 

Luckily, Shaw could still say no to Root. “Not a chance.”

 

Clearly enjoying herself, Root's smile remained. “Can I at least take you home?”

 

“I'll be fine.”

 

The other woman laughed quietly. She took Shaw's shoulders in her hands and leaned in, pressing their cheeks together. Shaw stood unmoving as she felt Root's lips graze her skin. She pulled away and it was over as quickly as it happened, for a moment Shaw wasn't sure that it happened at all. “Good evening, detective.”

 

Shaw turns and walks towards the door they came in. Avoiding eye-contact with the bartender, she scans the lobby for the young man who took her coat earlier, only to find him already emerging with her garments in hand.

 

“See you again, Miss Shaw,” he said to her. She no longer questioned how the people in here knew her name and was beginning to feel like a pawn in an elaborate game. For all she knew everything was carefully planned, from Root hiring her services, to Hanna's murder and everything in between. Every interaction and every conversation all orchestrated by Zoe.

 

Shaw lit a cigarette as she stepped outside. A cab was waiting on the curb across the street but she decided to walk the distance to her home. Despite the chill in the air, she felt like she could use the time to clear her head.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

 

_January 16 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

The next day Shaw went about her previous routine; in the morning she stopped at the market for cigarettes, and ate at the diner. Later, she spent some time at the gym to lift weights in order to pass the time. On a hunch, she stopped by a few pawn shops she was familiar with to ask about the jewelry stolen from Diane Hansen, and to check if anyone had seen Hanna's emerald ring.

 

The first few shops hadn't seen either of the pieces she was interested in, and one owner was uncooperative because he “didn't like the look” of Shaw, so she moved on quickly from that particular store. The second last shop she walked inside, however, proved to be the most helpful. While the man had not seen the ring taken from Hanna Frey, he did recall seeing the string of pearls as Shaw had described. The man who brought them had only been interested in an appraisal at that point, so Shaw asked that the owner contact her office if he happened to come in again. The only other detail she was able to obtain from the pawn broker was the man's name, Jimmy, though she suspected that might be a fake.

 

When Shaw returned to her office, she updated her notebook with the details of the person of interest. Caucasian, approximately forty years of age, roughly six feet in height, with short blonde hair and blue eyes. She took a cigarette from her pocket, striking a match to light it. She sucked on the end, blowing smoke up into the ceiling as she considered the case she had taken previous to Root.

 

On the map of New York City she had opened on her desk, Shaw had marked the area's where the recent burglaries had taken place, starting first with Diane Hansen, then Hanna Frey, and a few others in between. All of the crimes took place in the Eastern Parkway, not in any particular formation, but close enough in distance that there had to be a connection. Maybe the perpetrator lived or worked close by? Not only that, a piece of jewelry was taken during each of the incidents as far as she knew.

 

One of the oddities in the series of crimes was that Hanna was the only person to be killed. Did that mean that her incident was merely a coincidence, or was Carter correct in assuming that she was more resistant than the other victims. Shaw stared at the map and rubbed her forehead, the ringing of the telephone on her desk getting her attention. She snuffed the cigarette in her tray and lifted the receiver.

 

“Shaw.”

 

“ _It's Carter. Hanna's journal was checked back into evidence today, if you still wanted to come down and read it._ ”

 

Shaw nodded, leaning back in her chair. Root had already shown her the book in question when she asked her to look into Hanna's death. How she had it in her procession was still on Shaw's mind. “Did you happen to see the officer who signed it out?”

 

“ _Officer Ward, was it?_ ” Shaw's foot began tapping in anticipation while Carter paused a beat. “S _he returned it to the guys in evidence. I never saw her._ ”

 

Maybe it was too much to hope that Carter could confirm that Root was also Constance Ward. Although, it was impossible to be more than one person, Shaw almost felt silly for asking. The detective told her friend that she would be by the police station later this week to read the journal. Having already seen it, of course, Shaw had no intention of following up. After they hang up, Shaw rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands before standing from her desk and stretching her muscles. Not wanting to make the journey back to her apartment, Shaw once again retired to the bed attached to her office, as she had done more often lately.

 

 

 

>

 

 

_January 17 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Shaw was beginning to think that she may never hear from Zoe or any of her subordinates again. She had spent her second day of radio silence almost the same way she had the first; breakfast at the diner, some time at the gym, a quick stop at the market and the bank before coming back to her office.

 

She stood by the window, cigarette hanging from between her fingers. The sleeves on her white shirt are rolled up to her elbows, tie lay abandoned on the desk. She watched the snow as it fell from the gray sky. Weather predictions had been severe, the storm the newspaper was anticipating didn't seem to arrive yet, Shaw wouldn't mind if it passed over them completely. The flakes were more like a heavy rain than true snowfall.

 

When night had begun to fall again, she considered reaching out for an update on the master client list. However, the decision was taken out of her hands when the phone on her desk rang. She stepped away from the window and scooped the phone up with her free hand, sitting on the edge of her desk.

 

“Private Investigator.”

 

“ _Good evening, detective,_ ” the voice of Root greeted her. “ _I hope I'm not disturbing you._ ”

 

“You're always disturbing me.” 

 

The woman chuckled quietly. “ _As charming as ever,_ ” she paused. Shaw was beginning to wonder if it was merely a social call, then: “ _come see me tonight._ ”

 

Shaw snuffed the cigarette in the tray. “Do you have the client list?” Before she could stop herself, she added: “or do you need me for something else?”

 

She could practically hear Root's smile over the phone. “ _Are you looking to spend the night again, detective?_ ”

 

“No,” Shaw rolled her eyes. “Forget it. I'm on my way.”

 

“ _Actually Sameen,_ ” Root cut in before she could hang up, “ _I have to take care of something after work. Would you come by around midnight?_ ”

 

Shaw looked at her wristwatch, the hands indicating it was just after 8PM. “Yeah, fine,” she replied.

 

“ _Be seeing you, Shaw,_ ” she placed the telephone back on the cradle without responding and sighed. Now she had to figure out what to do while she waited four hours. Sitting in the corner of a bar would certainly make the time pass quickly, she thought, rubbing her chin.

 

Sameen stood from her desk and stretched for a few seconds before collecting her hat and overcoat. She locked the door behind her and ventured out into the cold, trying to think of a different way to pass the time.

 

 

 

>

 

 

After walking in the general direction of Root's apartment for some time, Shaw hailed a cab and asked it to drive her to the Coronet hotel. She gauged that it would take her thirty minutes to walk from the hotel to her destination, in the meantime she could relax at the bar and people watch, or listen to music if the hotel had the capability. She wasn't particularly interested in music, if she was she might have considered The Fix. In _that_ case, however, Shaw would have to deal with watching Root playing and wonder how she didn't figure out that she was pianist all along.

 

The receptionist at the hotel pointed her in the direction of the restaurant. A friendly hostess seated her away from the bar, where she could see a group of men drinking and laughing among themselves. Sitting on the counter was a small radio that seemed to be capturing everyone's attention. Shaw couldn't make out the words, but the pace at which the person was speaking made it clear that it was commentary on a sporting event. Every so often, the men would cheer and clap, or groan and slam hands against the counter.

 

She ordered a filet mignon, as it was listed as the special at the hotel, with a side of potatoes and a Coke for a drink. The waitress recommended she pair it with wine, as was the best way to enjoy the meat, to which Shaw refused. She's certain that Carter would scold her for putting herself in a situation where alcohol was readily offered, and easily accessible. Shaw's thinking was that if she could sit in a bar without having a drink, eventually she would have an easier time being near the stuff without breaking into a sweat. By the time she finished her meal, it was around 11PM. Sameen paid, leaving a generous tip, and walked from the hotel without having a drop of liquor.

 

Heading in the direction of Root's apartment, Shaw kept to the sidewalk which had been dusted with snow falling throughout the evening. Looking up at the buildings, she recognized the block from when she and Zoe drove around the day that they met. Some of the lights were on, though most were darkened. She lit a cigarette as she continued on, the cold air making her face feel stiff.

 

Soon, she could see her destination in the distance, and Shaw breathed out a sigh of relief while blowing the smoke from her lungs. The sounds of the city at night were always eerie, though lately she found herself out at this hour more often. The air seemed to vibrate as the temperature dropped, cars and pedestrians were few and far in between, local businesses drew their blinds shut and flipped their “open” signs. On nights like this, Shaw would sometimes feel like the only person in the city.

 

Shaw suddenly stopped walking when she thought she heard a noise. A muffled bang of some kind, it was unusual given the stillness surrounding her. She strained her ears to listen for anything else, craning her neck to look at the building she stood in front of. Sure enough, one window on the third floor was open enough that sound could travel out to her, and as she concentrated, another sound reached her: a woman yelling. Of course, this could easily be two overzealous lovers, but Shaw was confident she could tell the difference between pleasure and distress. She stood in the street, paralyzed as flashes of the woman she and Cole attended to crossed her mind. She pat her trouser pocket, looking for a gun that wasn't there.

 

More shouting and rustling broke her free of the memory, and the detective quickly walked into the building. There was a man in the lobby when she entered, he stood leaning against the wall to her right with a newspaper in his hand. He wore a newsboy hat, the brim pulled low enough to obscure his face, the man also wore leather gloves, slacks, and a knit sweater, all in black. Shaw could tell he was white, but he was doing a good job hiding the rest of his features.

 

She kept her face downcast under her own hat and immediately pushed through the door to the stairwell. With a brisk pace, soon she was on the third floor where she heard the disturbance. The hallway was long and quiet, the silence making her reconsider racing up here to investigate.  As she slowly walked down the hall, straining to hear any unusual sounds, she heard a thud and what was distinctly glass breaking. Sameen increased her stride to a jog until she was in front of the door where the noises were originating. Looking up at the number 110, she leaned close to the wood in an attempt to hear anything else.

 

Suddenly the door flew open, pushing Shaw down to the dirty floor. Before she could sit up and face the person on the other side, she was struck hard on the cheek, head bouncing back down to the ground. The blow hadn't knocked her out, but she was disoriented long enough for the attacker to get away. By the time she regained her senses, the assailant was already throwing open the door to the stairs and racing away.  Shaw groaned and lifted herself to a kneel, rubbing her cheek with the palm of her hand. After the wave of nausea passed, she stood up, using the doorknob to steady herself.

 

“Hello?” She called into the apartment. When no response came, she ventured inside, glass from a broken lamp crunching under her shoes.

 

Shaw is filled with unease, dreading what she would find here if she continued searching. As she rounds the corner to the living area, her feelings were realized when she discovered the body of a young woman lying on the floor.

 

“Fuck,” she swallowed hard, kneeling over the woman's form. Her blue eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, while her red hair was sprayed around her. Shaw touched a finger to the pulse point on her neck, as expected she felt nothing. Before pulling back, Shaw waved a hand over the woman's eyes to shut them.

 

The detective stood up again, stumbling back onto the couch behind her. Shaw leaned on her knees, unable to look away, the image weighing heavily on her. She had seen her fair share of corpses while overseas, and living in New York City meant she was sometimes privy to scenes of crime and gore.

 

No, the thing that disturbed her wasn't seeing the body, but _recognizing_ it. From the files on the women Carter researched for her, it seemed like victim number two was Wendy McNally.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one bites the dust?
> 
> During their phone conversation, originally Shaw asked Root if she was making a "booty call". I realized later that, unfortunately, that's not a phrase anyone in the 1940s would use, ha ha ha. Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> "Cocktails for Two" by Howard Phillips


	9. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being questioned regarding the recent murder, Shaw reaches her breaking point.

 

 

_January 18 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

“Tell me again.”

 

Shaw groaned and leaned her head against the metal table in front of her, sleep begging her to come. “I was outside of the victim's apartment when I heard yelling,” she began, her voice muffled. “By the time I got up there, she was dead. I used her telephone to report the crime and your boys were kind enough to bring me here instead of home. Since then, I've been repeating myself to you and your idiot partner.”

 

She lifted her head up to look across the table at the police officer that had been questioning her. His blue uniform was adorned with gold buttons done all the way up to his chin, notebook flat on the table across from her. With hair cut short, as her military sergeant once had, and a ring on his right hand. The plate under his badge was inscribed with _R.Terney_. She had called the police to the scene after determining that the woman was dead. They arrived within the hour and asked Shaw to come back to the station to answer questions. That was over _two_ hours ago. All she wanted now was to go home and forget the whole mess. Wendy, Hanna, Zoe, Root, all of it.

 

“Can you tell us anything about the suspect?”

 

“No.”

 

“Just 'no'?”

 

“I got a good look at his fist when he tried to knock me out, that help?”

 

“This looks bad on you doll,” the officer, his New York accent clear. “You should be cooperating with me.”

 

She didn't get the chance to respond as the door to the room opened, revealing another officer. This man was stocky, with short, curly hair. “I think that's good for one night,” he'd said, nodding to Shaw, “just don't leave the state, okay sunshine? We'll call if anything else comes up.”

 

The metal chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it away from the desk. She tried not to think of the telephone call she would get from Carter once the policewoman found out what happened. Both her body and mind felt heavy, still she managed to stand and eventually exit the police station, limbs seemingly willing themselves forward. She shuffled a few steps in no particular direction when she heard a voice. Possibly the last one she was interested in hearing right now.

 

“Sameen,” Root stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the passenger side door of a dark vehicle.

 

She stopped walking, but didn't turn to look at the other woman. The cold air was beginning to numb her fingers. “What do you want?” She growled in response.

 

“I was worried,” Shaw scoffed as Root continued. “You didn't come to see me, and you weren't at your home.”

 

“So you came to the police station.”

 

“Somehow it seemed more likely that you'd be here.”

 

“Did you break into my apartment? My office?” Root hesitated, in doing so she gave Shaw the answer. “Whatever, I'm leaving.”

 

“Shaw, wait.”

 

Shaw had shuffled another step forward, sighing into the night air. “You do know that another one of your friends is dead, right?”

 

Shaw finally turned to look at Root. She was wearing a brown overcoat and black shoes, on her head was a hat which covered her eyes at an angle. It was all black with a ribbon acting as the band, her brown hair stuck out from the bottom. without it's usual bounce.

 

“We're... aware,” she moved off the car, taking a step towards Shaw on the sidewalk. “Zoe needs to see you immediately.”

 

“You're kidding.”

 

Root's eyes were downcast as she gestured to the car. “Please, Sameen,” the detective made no move, she breathed out slowly, creating mist in front of her. “I would rather not force you to come with me.”

 

Shaw's eyebrow twitched as she considered how Root might accomplish that. Looking more closely at how the woman carried herself, with her dejected posture, heavy voice, and downcast eyes, Shaw realized that this meeting was unpleasant for Root as well. The detective said nothing as she stepped to the vehicle, Root reaching to open the door without making eye contact. Root then entered the car via the driver's side door and headed in the direction of The Fix. Shaw considered the reason for Zoe summoning her at this hour, obviously it had something to do with Wendy being killed.

 

Shaw lit a cigarette, but flicked it out of the window after only a few puffs. Given her state the smoke only made her already knotted stomach clench tighter.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Root didn't speak a word on the drive. When they arrived at the club, Shaw followed the taller woman inside. Glancing at her wristwatch, Shaw groaned upon seeing the hands at 3AM, her body rhythm would definitely be out of sync for the next few days. Together they entered the deserted club, Root leading them straight to Zoe's office. When they reached the large door, Root knocked once and waited for the door to be opened. John's face appeared on the other side, and he gestured the two women inside, shutting the door behind them.

 

Zoe sat behind her large desk, looking as if she had been awake for as long as Shaw. She wore a black dress with short sleeves, and her hair was tied back. A cigarette hung between her fingers, and a glass of alcohol, whiskey from the smell, sat in front of her. Shaw also noticed the decanter from which Zoe was likely pouring her drink, it was severely depleted.

 

“Sorry to call on you at this hour, Shaw,” Zoe snuffed her cigarette. “I'm sure you know why I needed to see you.”

 

Shaw took the seat across from Zoe. “I didn't kill her.”

 

“Of course not,” Zoe leaned on the desk, folding her hands. “Did you get the chance to meet with her?” Wendy was the next person they were supposed to be speaking with, but since they decided to use the master client list instead, it became unnecessary. She shook her head in response. “I see,” Zoe glanced to where Root was still standing behind Shaw, “we need to connect with Paula.” Shaw looked over her shoulder to Root as well, who simply nodded. “That's two of my girls killed in the same month. I want the son of a bitch found, detective.”

 

Shaw's eyes fell to Zoe's glass, immediately losing focus. “Call the cops, then.”

 

The woman sighed, “I'll pretend I didn't hear that. They've already been snooping around here. I need _you_ to keep investigating.”

 

Shaw hoped she misheard. The situation was more fucked up than she could comprehend, the last thing she wanted was to dig a hole deeper than she was already stuck in. “Why me? Don't you have people for this?”

 

Zoe stood from behind the desk, picking up the decanter to top off her whiskey. She looked back to Root once again as she spoke. “I appreciate the special skills you bring to the table. I can compensate you for your time, and any other expenses.”

 

Shaw stood from her seat and sighed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her overcoat. “I'll pass.”

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

“I'm done with this,” she turned to leave, catching Root's eye as she walked passed her. John stood in front of the door, and it didn't seem like he was ready to move. “Out of the way.”

 

The need to be out of this small room overpowered the exhaustion she felt. As all four walls began closing in, Shaw stared hard into the eyes of Zoe's personal _whatever_ , his blue eyes as strong willed as hers. She was beginning to think of ways she could force him down, a well placed kick to his knee, then maybe a palm to the nose to knock him out of the way when Root spoke up behind her. “Sameen, at least hear her out.”

 

The detective spun around to face Root again, the vibrant woman looking tired and defeated. “Something's off with you people, and I'm sick of trying to figure it out.”

 

“Shaw...” Zoe began, but the detective continued:

 

“No. We're supposed to be on the same side, but I'm playing a move behind. You know everything about me because you send one of your hookers,” she gestured to Root, “to follow me around everywhere.”

 

“I'm not—” Root tried to interject this time, but Shaw wasn't finished.

 

“For all I know, the both of you conspired to have these women killed and now you're fucking me around. I'm **done**.”

 

With the tension in the room reaching a palpable level, Zoe nodded to John who moved away from the door. Zoe sat down behind her desk again, not visibly bothered by Shaw's words. “It's been a long night, detective, and I understand why you're upset. We'll be in touch after you've had a few days.”

 

Seething now, Shaw turned again towards the door, pulling it open with excessive force. She heard Root's voice behind her: “Let me take you home, Shaw.”

 

Zoe answered before Sameen had the chance, “you're staying, Root.”

 

While part of her would have liked to eavesdrop on that conversation, she was more interested in leaving. On her way towards the door, Shaw stopped at the unattended bar, the events of the last twelve hours replaying so quickly in her mind that she was physically dizzy. She walked in behind the bar, retrieved a glass and a bottle of bourbon from the highest shelf she could reach.

 

“Fuck this,” she said to herself, twisting the cap and tossing it onto the counter. The liquid was smooth, the smell biting and powerful. She tipped the bottle into the glass, some of it splashing onto the counter. Sameen squeezed the glass as she lifted it from the counter, the liquid bouncing under her shaky grip. Her mind seemed to catch up with her actions and she suddenly turned and threw the glass to the ground, gasping as it shattered at her feet. She then feels the weight of the room bearing down on her and races for the front door. Once outside, Sameen is struggles to catch her breath, the air cold and painful in her lungs. She gets to the bottom of the stairs and grips the banister. It's ice cold, aching, the sensation traveling through her palm and up her arm.

 

The detective feels her stomach clench, and she leans over a snowbank and wretches. Once she is sufficiently purged, Shaw takes a few shaky steps towards the curb. She scooped a handful of fresh snow and stuffed it into her mouth in the hopes that it would calm the disturbance within. She spat what remained onto the ground and began walking in the direction of her apartment, wanting to put as much distance between herself and The Fix as possible.

 

 

>

 

 

_Sameen is standing at the end of a hallway that is lined with doors. It stretches so far that she cannot see the end. She looks to her left and right, the hall is so narrow that she's unable to stretch her arms out. It's dark, and her mind is disoriented in such a way that she can't identify the source of the light. She sways on her feet._

 

“ _Hello?” Sameen calls out, her voice bouncing off the walls and echoing back to her._

 

_She takes several steps forward, then suddenly hears a crash coming from one of the doors ahead. She jogs to where the sound came from, the door is marked with 202. Sameen grabs the knob and pulls, but it wont budge._

 

“ _Someone help me!” She's heard the voice before. She could still picture the young woman's face sitting across from her. Brown hair, brown eyes..._

 

“ _Hanna?” Sameen calls out, pounding the door with her hand. She hears the woman yelling, struggling. It's coming from behind the door, yet the sound is all around her. Desperate, she throws her shoulder into the door once, twice, three times without success. She takes one step back to rethink her strategy, only to see that the door is no longer there. Sameen hits the blank wall with her hand, it's as if the door never existed to begin with._

 

_Sameen hears another sound coming from her left, more screaming. Her legs feel numb as she sprints to the source. Again the voice is familiar, recent. As she runs she passes more doors marked with numbers. The sound was so clear, but as she runs she can't help feel like she'll never be able to reach. Sameen hears the glass lamp breaking from behind the door marked with 110._

 

“ _Fuck,” Sameen cursed after trying the knob. She steps back, intending to kick the door open. As she raised her foot, the already dim lights in the hallway flickered. When they came back on, milliseconds after, the door was gone._

 

_These women around her keep disappearing and she doesn't understand why. The hallway spins, Sameen loses her balance and leans against the wall, head in her hands. Ahead, she hears a door open, flooding the hallway with light. Looking up, she sees a person standing in the doorway, a silhouette of a woman. The light behind her is bright enough that Sameen has to shield her eyes._

 

_Sameen walks towards them, her hand trails against the wall for balance. The woman is holding something metal in her hand, but the sound of her voice draw's Sameen's attention away from it:_

 

“ _You're too late,” Root says._

 

_Sameen is a few steps away from her now. She wants to ask what happened to Wendy, to Hanna, but Root doesn't give her the chance. The taller woman raises her arm, it's clear now that the object she was holding was a gun. Sameen's eye's widen, and her world goes black as the sound of the weapon firing consumes the space._

 

 

>

 

 

Shaw wakes with a violent start, the gunshot ringing loud in her ears. As she's sucking in as much as as possible, the detective looks around the room. She's not in a strange hallway, but in her own bed. The light streaming in from behind her half-drawn curtain tells her it's late in the morning.

 

Wiping sweat from her forehead with her bed sheets, Shaw gets up, taking shaky steps towards the kitchen. She takes a glass from the counter and fills it with cold water, then drinks from it. As her body returns to it's rhythm, she begins to recall everything that happened last night. Hearing commotion from Wendy McNally's apartment, rushing inside only to find the victim already dead, being questioned by the police, then later by Zoe Morgan. Shaw took a taxicab home after throwing up on the sidewalk, then fell asleep almost immediately after she returned. Looking down at herself, she was still wearing the clothes from yesterday.

 

Shaw sighed, rubbing her temple with the tips of her fingers. Uneasy feelings from her dream may have faded, but the pounding behind her eyes remained, seemingly intensifying the more she thought about last night. Walking away from the kitchen, Shaw enters her bathroom. She turns the shower on, examining the blooming bruise on her cheek while she waited for the water to heat up.

 

After she'd showered and dressed in clean clothes, she knelt down beside her bed and removed the false floorboard, reaching for the lock-box kept inside. Taking some of the money given to her by Root, Shaw also grabbed the bottle of The Old Reserve, having fleeting thoughts of the night she bought it. Returning the box to it's place underneath the floor, the detective walked back into the kitchen and stood over her sink, bottle still in hand.

 

With her eyes forward, not focused on anything in particular, Shaw retrieved another glass from the cabinet above her head. Twisting the cap from the bottle, she considered the choices presented to her in this moment: pour the liquor into her glass, or into the sink. She remembered how the alcohol tingled when she drank before the new year. Or how she tasted it when Root kissed her.

 

Her life had been no different since she avoided the drink. Hell, one could almost argue that it had been worse. In this dangerous city, filled with murder and crime around every corner, you never really know when your number is up. Last night, had she been quicker to react to the commotion she heard, Wendy's murderer could have done her in as well. She may have also been on time to prevent it. In times so unpredictable and uncertain, Shaw decided that there was no point in denying herself any longer.

 

She poured herself two fingers of the brandy, careful not to spill any on the counter. Shaw sealed the bottle again and raised the glass to her lips, taking in the scent first, then slowly sipping the fruity liquor. Her mouth felt numb, her tongue stinging with a familiar yet forgotten sensation. She could feel the trail the liquid took down her throat, the burning settling in the bottom of her stomach, prickling throughout her body.

 

Unlike last night, her body was calm. She tipped the glass to her lips again, letting the brandy swish around in her mouth before swallowing it down. Shaw's body tingled, and she smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Shaw's subconscious is trying to tell her that Root might be dangerous.
> 
> Temptation sung by Perry Como


	10. Give Me the Moon Over Brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's spiral continues.

 

 

_January 18 th, 1947_

NYC

 

 

 

After spending a few more minutes enjoying her drink, Shaw eventually made her way to the diner to get some much needed food into her body. By the time she sat at the counter it was well passed noon, both the breakfast and lunch crowds having come and gone. Shaw considered reading the newspaper, eventually deciding that she didn't want to revisit the details of another death so quickly after the fact. She stilled, thinking of how the young woman looked just moments after being killed. Murdered.

 

“Oh, Sam!” A voiced called to her. The waitress approached, leaning her arms on the counter in front of Shaw. “I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it today,” her eyes widened as she noticed the mark on Shaw's cheek. “My goodness! What happened?”

 

“I overslept,” Shaw said, shifting in her seat with a grimace. She touched the discolored skin on her face, “I slipped outside.”

 

“Let me get you some coffee, honey,” the waitress disappeared into the kitchen, only to return a moment later with a cup and coffee pot. She placed the cup down on the counter and filled it. “Before I forget,” Sally began, “your friend was in earlier this morning lookin' for 'ya.”

 

Shaw blinked. She took two sugar packets and dumped them into her coffee before adding a splash of milk. “This friend have a name?”

 

Sally considered for a moment. Shaw could almost see the gears spinning behind her blue eyes. “Gosh Sam, I can't remember. It was a hectic morning.”

 

The detective drank from her coffee. She could feel the warmth spreading out from her stomach. “It's fine.”

 

“Well, your friend's a real sweetheart. Said she's been worried about you all night, ain't that somethin'?”

 

Shaw raised her eyebrows. If she was correct in assuming that Root was the “friend” that came into the diner today, then it was obvious Sally was under her spell once again. “Oh, it's something...”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Straying from her usual order of pancakes, Sameen enjoyed a B.L.T. sandwich and fries before deciding to return to her home for the day. She avoided the office in case Root was waiting to ambush her. No doubt the woman would try to convince Shaw to take Zoe's offer to find those responsible for the death of her girls. Instead, Shaw was home in record time with nary and incident to speak of.

 

She made sure to slide the lock firmly in place once she returned, having no desire to repeat the incident involving Root somehow unlocking the door to her office. She passed by the kitchen, noticing the bottle of brandy that she'd left out this morning. Shrugging, she crossed her apartment in a few steps and took the bottle by it's neck, popping the loose cap off with her thumb and bringing the tip straight to her mouth. No point in dirtying a glass, she figured. Shaw was content, more than she had been in a very long time. No prostitutes around to ask for her help, nor any blubbering women complaining about missing objects or cheating husbands. She took another gulp from the bottle and hummed. So content.

 

Hours later, the bottle in her hand felt light as air, and her skin buzzed so intensely that she felt numb. Smiling, she sat down in her reading chair and stared up at the ceiling fan. The blades appeared to be spinning, though she was certain she hadn't turned it on.  She chuckled softly, feeling the bottle slip from her fingers, barely hearing the soft thud of the empty glass hitting the ground. Sleep called her name, and she answered right away.

 

 

 

>

 

 

_January 19 th, 1947_

NYC

 

 

Shaw awoke from a dreamless sleep the next morning. More accurately it was the afternoon by the time her eyes opened. She was surprised to be lying in her bed when she had fallen asleep in her chair. Her muscles felt stiff, rising from her position, Shaw was met with some dizziness and became aware of the pressure behind her eyes. Crossing into the bathroom, Sameen filled a glass with water from the tap and drank quickly as her body would allow. When the glass is empty, she turns the tap on again, this time filling her hands and splashing her face, scrubbing the skin with her fingertips.

 

Sameen looks at her reflection in the mirror. Shadows are obvious under her eyes, several strands of hair are sticking to her face, having come free from the pony tail she kept. The bruise on her cheek was more yellow than black now, and the detective guessed it would be gone within the next few days. She took the toothbrush sitting on the counter and turned the tap on again.

 

After cleaning up and listening to her stomach loudly grumbling, Shaw ventured out into the cold yet again. Her footsteps were shaky from a combination of the uneven ground at her feet, and the very persistent droning in her head.

 

Sameen stopped a few blocks later, waiting for her turn to cross the street. Her breathing was labored, the cold air burning her lungs when she inhaled too deeply. She watched with dazed eyes as the mist from her breath was carried up. The street seemed to be clear, so without looking she stepped down from the curb and began her journey across the street. Her face had become numb, like the rest of her, and all the surrounding noise faded away.

 

She thought of Hanna as she walked. How did she come to work for Zoe? A woman so beautiful, with so much potential. All of Miss Morgan's employees had skills and talents to be appreciated, how did they _all_ end up in her orbit, working this less than desirable life?

 

Her mind continued to wander, keeping her attention away from her surroundings. An oncoming vehicle sped towards her, blaring the horn loudly. The noise caught up with Sameen just in time, her body coming to a rigid stop. The former marine's reflexes must have kicked in as well, she felt herself stepping back enough to avoid being struck by the car, which made no attempt to slow down. The motor vehicle whipped passed her, the wind blowing her hat from her head and into the distance, the gray overcoat whipping to the left before settling around her legs again. Shaw let out a breath and walked the remaining distance to the other side of the street.

 

Sameen took a cigarette from the package in her pocket and lit the tip. She stopped walking to take a few puffs, and turned back to where she had been narrowly missed on the street. Scanning the sidewalk, Shaw thought she saw a familiar brown coat on the other side of the block. Being quite the distance away, she didn't get a good look, and the person seemed to disappear after a large truck passed by and obscured Shaw's view. She shrugged, blaming her falling adrenaline and hunger for the image and continued on her way.

 

 

>

 

 

Shaw's visit to the diner was cut short after her waitress friend pushed the limit of her patience. First bringing up how _dreadful_ Shaw continued to look, then asked if she read about the woman that was killed two nights ago. While the detective knew she can't avoid the topic forever, Shaw was determined to face it when she deemed herself ready, and not a moment sooner. She apologized to the waitress and left without further explanation.

 

With the intention of returning home, Shaw hailed a passing taxi-cab, but instead directed the driver to her office. When she flicked the light on, her attention was drawn to the paperwork that was scattered over her desk. For a moment she furrows her brow, and after she's hung her overcoat, Shaw recalls the work she was doing prior to Wendy McNally's murder. Her notebook was open, as was a map of New York City. The detective had also taken the time to mark where the murders had been, as she was trying to discover a pattern to the crimes. She walked up to her desk slowly, flicking on the lap at the corner. If she had worked harder on the case, could she have saved Wendy? Or Hanna?

 

Sameen swiped the papers from the desk, sending them fluttering to the floor beneath her. She stuck her hand into her pants pocket, drawing the keys in order to unlock the drawer of her desk. She pulled the bottle of Hunter Rye and twisted the lid off, placing the bottle on the empty surface of her desk. She stepped to where her water decanter was and snatched up one of the empty glasses, the one she nearly drank from several nights ago, and dropped it unceremoniously next to the bottle.

 

Shaw used the door to the right of her desk and entered the bedroom, looking in the nightstand drawer for the box of supplies she used to clean her service weapon. Once she had retrieved it, she returned to the office proper and poured herself a glass of rye. With a different, yet equally intoxicating odor, she took the glass in her hands, swirling it gently before taking a small sip. Why had she ever thought to stop? She could already feel herself calming, images of dead women being pushed to the far reaches of her mind.

 

Sameen then took the Smith & Wesson from her drawer and began to disassemble the firearm, as well as clean and oil it. Though it had not been fired in quite some time, the familiar actions keeps her mind sharp. Every so often she took a drink and continued to work, more focused than she'd felt in weeks.  After tending to her weapon, Shaw was beginning to clean her hands when the telephone on her desk rang. Though reluctant to answer, she plucked the handset up and held it to her ear.

 

“Yeah?” She answered with a groan, her voice hoarse.

 

“ _Where the hell have you been?_ ” The scolding voice of Joss Carter was on the other line. Shaw winced at the bite in the woman's words. “ _I've been trying to reach you._ ”

 

Shaw flicked the barrel of her gun back into place, pulling the trigger several times. Her lips turned up momentarily at the sharp _click click click_. “I've been busy.”

 

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Shaw put the gun back into the drawer of her desk, “ _they told me you were brought in on a suspected murder charge the other night._ ”

 

“The key word being suspected.”

 

“ _This isn't funny, Shaw. The attending officers found a black notebook identical to the one recovered from Hanna Frey. Only this one had been tossed in the fire._ ”

 

Shaw took the glass of rye from her desk, peering into the depths before taking a sip. This time the perpetrators put more effort into destroying the records. “And?”

 

“And _considering the cause of death was the same in both cases, it's reasonable to assume that the cases are related._ ”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“ _You asked me to look into names pertaining to a 'client' you had. Both Hanna Frey and Wendy McNally were on the list. We checked out the club that both the girls supposedly worked at, but found nothing._ ”

 

The detective tilted her head back, dumping the rest of the liquor down her throat and placing the glass back on her desk. “Are you accusing me of something here?”

 

Joss sighed heavily before she spoke again. “ _Do you know more about these murders than you've told me?_ ”

 

“I already gave my statement to your fellow officers,” sighing, she took the bottle and tipped it to her glass, filling just one finger worth.

 

“ _I wasn't sure what to think when I found out they brought you in. I'm sure you understand._ ”

 

Shaw spun the glass slowly, “just doing your job. Speaking of, I'd really like to get back to mine.”

 

Before Joss could respond, or question how many days she was sober, Sameen placed the phone back down. The worry was that her friend was intelligent enough to uncover the details regarding the murders, despite Shaw's efforts to keep her in the dark. After the phone call ended, Shaw leaned back on her chair while resting the heels of her feet on her desk. She stared up at the ceiling fan, struggling to keep her eyes focused.

 

It's unclear to Shaw how much time she spent motionless in her chair. It wasn't until her feet started to prickle due to the lack of circulation that she righted herself and stood from the desk. She walked towards the door, stepping over the mess she'd made with her papers, and took the gray overcoat off the coat hook. She couldn't stand the sight of the four walls in her office any longer, despite this place acting as her home more often than her residence. Shaw sighed and stepped out of the office once again, locking the door behind her.

 

Upon seeing a familiar black car parked on the street in front of the building, she began to seethe. While she didn't have a destination in mind when leaving the office, she would not allow it to be decided for her. The bright embers of a cigarette being flicked onto the street caught her attention, as did the person apparently awaiting her arrival.

 

“Detective,” Root nodded in her direction, face once again obscured by the dark hat she wore. The woman stood against the brick of her office building, still as enigmatic as ever. Shaw's anger level rose considerably as she faced Root. Night had long fallen on the city, a nearby street lamp providing the glow from above their heads. The white snow on the ground reflected some of the light, illuminating the other woman's pale skin. Shaw notices that her lips are painted with a nude shade rather than the usual red. Her breathing is controlled so as not to create much mist in the air. It's interesting, Shaw thinks, considering for a moment that she conjured the image in her mind. The detective blinked hard several times, unfortunately Root remained.

 

“We're going to have a problem if you don't stop following me.”

 

Root pushed off from the wall, sliding her hands inside the pocket of her brown coat. “I worry about you, Sameen.”

 

“So you've said.”

 

“It's the truth.”

 

A shake of her head, then: “I don't know what's the truth with you.”

 

“You only have to ask.”

 

Shaw sighed deeply, her breath visible in the air. The skin on her face was becoming numb from the air. She was tired of these games. So very tired. “What do you want?”

 

Root met her eyes and shuffled one step closer. Her shoes scraping the snow and salt on the pavement at her feet. “I need you to decide to help me.”

 

Scoffing, Shaw stared at the woman, incredulous. “You're really something,” Root shrugged a fraction, meanwhile Shaw crossed her arms. “What makes you think I'd consider helping you now?”

 

“For the same reason you agreed to help Hanna in the first place.”

 

“I already turned turned down Zoe's offer.”

 

“Not the money,” Root said, she met Shaw's eyes again with a fire burning in her gaze. “You wanted to bring Hanna's killer to justice. The same is true for Wendy.”

 

“You don't know that,” Shaw's voice had dropped in volume.

 

Root, while not oblivious to the detective's anger, was unfazed by it. “On the contrary, Shaw. I know everything about you.”

 

Having heard all she could stand, Shaw held her hands out. “Enough,” she turned on her heel and started walking down the street. She was relieved when she didn't hear the woman following.

 

“What if someone else is killed, Sameen?” Root called to her, “what are you going to feel then?”

 

Shaw walked the rest of the block and turned the corner, her head hanging back as she sighed. “Not a damn thing.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

When the cold became too much to bear, Shaw entered an unfamiliar bar several blocks away from her office building. She stepped inside the dimly lit establishment, bringing her clasped hands to her mouth and blowing in an attempt to regain some warmth. The bar had a long counter that took an L shape, as most bars did. Along the opposite wall were booths filled with customers, while circular tables were spread out between the two. At the back of the building was a billiards table that looked to have a game in progress.

 

Taking a stool at the end of the bar closest to the game, Shaw got the bartenders attention and ordered a pint of whatever was on tap, hoping to push the encounter with Root from her mind.

 

Shaw spent the next several hours there, letting the different sounds fill her mind: the patrons talking and laughing, or the cracking of the cue ball being shot around the felt table. Bottle caps being forced off the neck of a cold beer, and ice cubes dancing inside a tumbler. All while nursing her own drink, then a second and third before she lost count.

 

After a while, the noises became muffled, the dim lights turned soft and fuzzy. Until the words of a well dressed man next to her made their way over the rest. “Then I told her: speak to me like that again and you're going to have matching shiners.”

 

Laughter erupted from the group of men beside her. She turned her head to face the one who spoke: it was a man wearing a dark suit and yellow tie. He looked to be an average build, brown hair and blue eyes. Shaw watched him drink the rest of his scotch before he noticed she was staring. He smirked and ran his eyes all over her form.

 

“You got a problem, doll face?”

 

She spun in her stool to face him fully. “Sorry, what were you saying?” She asked.

 

“I said: you got a probl—”

 

“No, no,” Shaw interrupted him with a wave of her hand, “before that.”

 

He gave her a look, turning to face her as well, “just tellin' Ricky and the boys here what's comin' to my old lady.” The man grinned, his companions laughed again.

 

“Mhmm...” Shaw nodded, rubbing her jaw with the palm of her hand.

 

“What's it to you?”

 

Shaw considered for a moment before she beckoned the man to lean closer. He complied, perhaps having his own ideas about what she wanted. Seeing her mark in range, Shaw grasped his yellow tie and jerked the fabric down as hard as she could, causing the man's face to collide with the bar. The impact was loud, as was the subsequent noise caused by him falling backwards from the stool he sat on. Shaw retrieved her beer from the counter and took a sip, watching the now motionless patron on the floor. A hush fell over the room.

 

Retrieving some cash from her pocket, Shaw tossed a few bills on the counter before standing up. As she made to leave, several of the other men stood up as well, blocking her path. Eyebrows raised, she looked to each of them, hands on her hips.

 

“You boys like to beat your wives, too?” Sameen's voice was higher than normal, patronizing the group. Suddenly she vibrated with energy, daring someone, anyone, to make a move on her.

 

Sadly no one took the bait. She shrugged and made to walk by the group of men when one of them, perhaps Ricky, grabbed the lapels of her coat. Her lips parted in a smile that she didn't have control of, and she chuckled as the man pushed her back against the bar.

 

“You're going to pay for that, you little bitch,” he snarled at her.

 

Shaw giggled at him, which oddly seemed to make him more irate. “And _you're_ going to take your hands off me,” she looked him up and down, “little bitch.”

 

That seemed to be the cap for his anger, Ricky released her roughly and pulled his fist back. Shaw easily evaded by stepping to the right, preparing to use her attacker's now prone position to retaliate. Taking a fist full of his hair, Sameen slammed his head down on the bar counter, content to let him fall backwards and join his unconscious friend. She looked to the stunned faces of the men around her.

 

“Anyone else?”

 

Only after a brief pause did they decide to attack. The detective hit the next attacker in the nose with the palm of her hand, subduing him easily. The next she drew close and hit his abdomen with her knee several times before tossing him into a nearby table. Her movements were a blur, striking knees, noses, or stomachs of those stupid enough to come at her. For them it must have been a matter of pride, for her was a way to release aggression that had been building this last week. She took a first to the face and responded in kind. Another man pushed her back into the bar with more force than the previous, causing several glasses to fall and shatter on the ground behind the counter. Sameen threw her forehead into his nose and the man stumbled back, tripping over a fallen chair.

 

Still leaning against the counter, Shaw looked to her left and saw one of the pool players. With shaky legs, the young man approached her, the pool cue held up like a weapon. She sneered at him, taking a few uneasy steps in his direction. He swung the cue without effort or precision, her arm able to easily snap out and relieve him of it. Rather than crack the wood over his skull, which she very much wanted to do, Sameen snapped the cue over her knee and discarded the two pieces on the ground.

 

The bartenders voice caught her attention. She turned her head to face the man, now that she was no longer moving about, all the colors of the bar were blurring together. She had to blink a few times before he came into focus. “Get the hell out of here already!”

 

Carefully stepping between bodies, overturned tables, and broken glass, Sameen worked her way to the door and exited. She took a deep breath of the cold air and exhaled slowly, her face turned up towards the sky. Everything around her seemed to be in motion as she walked down the street, no direction or destination crossing her mind. The snow crunched under her shoes, while large flakes fell from the sky. Her skin felt warm, practically ablaze from all the excitement in the bar. Fights were never a regular occurrence during her previous stint with alcohol, but she had to admit it was the most fun she could remember having. Sameen laughed to herself, thinking of the stunned looks on the men she fought.

 

Perhaps too giddy for her own good, Shaw lost her balance and stumbled down onto the cold ground beneath her. She tried to get back up without success, her fingers stinging as the snow stuck to her skin. Opting to roll onto her back and wait for the wave of nausea to pass, Sameen lay staring straight up at the dark sky. Snow continued to fall, the flakes that landed upon her face were cold in contrast to her skin, which still seemed to be burning. The difference in temperature was so distinct that Shaw could visualize each individual flake as it melted into water and raced down her skin.

 

The sight of the white tufts of snow coming slowly towards her was hypnotic, the moon full and bright in the sky. Sameen lay on the ground no less than ten minutes before her eyes became too heavy to keep open.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Root should be keeping a closer eye on Shaw, tsk tsk.
> 
> T̶r̶o̶u̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶-̶ ̶T̶a̶y̶l̶o̶r̶ ̶S̶w̶i̶f̶t̶  
> Give me the Moon over Brooklyn - Guy Lombardo


	11. St. James Infirmary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw makes a decision regarding the investigation.

 

 

_January ??, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Consciousness comes abruptly, almost violently. Shaw's ears are ringing, her head feels as though it's filled with static. She opens her eyes, only to be met with bright lights and blurry figures. She hears two voices at her side, neither are familiar. Unable to move her arms or legs, Sameen tries calling out, but only a breath escapes her lips.

 

“It's okay,” the voice to her right says. It's a woman's voice, light and kind. “You're in the hospital.”

 

Vision clearing, Shaw looked to her surroundings once again. She was indeed lying in a hospital bed with a doctor and nurse at her side. A clear fluid was being pumped into her via the intravenous line stuck in her hand, something she recognized from her brief time in medical school.

 

“Can you tell me your name?” The doctor asked as she took Shaw's hand, pressing two fingers to her wrist.

 

The detective cleared her throat and grimaced. The inside of her mouth tasted like old wood. “Sameen Shaw,” she ground out.

 

The nurse to her left scribbled on a piece of paper. Then the doctor spoke again, “good. I'm doctor Tillman. Do you know what day it is, Sameen?”

 

She had to think for a few seconds to come up with the answer, her mind still felt foggy. The eighteenth? No, nineteen. “January nineteenth, forty-seven,” this time the doctor frowned.

 

“Sameen, today is the twenty-second.” Wait, _what?_ “Do you remember how you got here?”

 

The last thing she remembered was getting into a fight at the bar, which apparently was two days ago. “I... don't know.” She tried shifting but was met with pain on her left side. The doctor placed a hand on her shoulder. Shaw looked from the doctor to the nurse and took a shaky breath. Did the room just get smaller?

 

“Take it slow, okay? You dislocated your left shoulder and suffered a sprain in your wrist.” Shaw looked down at her left hand, now noticing that it was wrapped in beige fabric. Her right hand was purple with bruises on her knuckles. Doctor Tillman continued, “after heavy alcohol consumption, you had a seizure. You were with a friend at the time and they brought you here immediately. Most of your injuries had been sustained prior to that, except for the concussion. You hit your head when you seized.”

 

Sameen's eyes darted around as the doctor explained what happened. She was in disbelief, “what?”

 

“We'll keep you here for a few days at the least. Once we make sure that everything is out of your system you're free to go.”

 

“N-No,” Shaw stuttered, “I need to get out of here.” She struggled to sit up in the hospital bed, both the doctor and nurse trying to keep her from moving.

 

“Sameen, relax. You're safe here.”

 

The walls were closing in all around her, relaxing was not an option. She tried to push against the nurse on her left with no success. Her body was completely drained, not to mention the strain on the shoulder that she'd apparently dislocated. Doctor Tillman released her right shoulder and pulled an object from the pocket of her lab coat. Sameen's eyes widened upon seeing the long needle shine under the hospital light.

 

“No, no, no—wait!”  Unfortunately she was too weak to fight in her current state. Almost immediately after the doctor pierced her skin with the needle-head and pushed the plunger fully down, the medication pulled Shaw back into the darkness.

 

The storm within was significantly calmer when Sameen woke up the second time. Her limbs felt heavy, as if they had been made of led. Meanwhile her head was light, vision swimming. This time only the doctor was in the room with her.

 

“Hello again, detective,” as the doctor spoke, Shaw tried to shift into a sitting position, groaning against the soreness all over. “Do you remember your name?”

 

“Shaw.”

 

The doctor nodded. “And the date?”

 

She raised an eyebrow, a foggy recollection of the same questions coming to mind. “January twenty-second.”

 

“Good. We should talk about what happened.” Once again, the doctor spoke of Shaw's injuries, from her shoulder, to her hand, as well as the black eye and concussion. The doctor also explained everything she knew about the situation leading to her admittance to the hospital, and issued a warning: “If you drink again... if you _continue_ to drink, you are going to die.”

 

Sameen's bandage-clad hand picked at the needle stuck in her right hand, once again feeling very unsettled. “I wont drink again.”

 

“They all say the same thing,” Doctor Tillman sighed, moving to stand next to Shaw's bed. “You were in the detox program just after Christmas and here you are again.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don't think you do. Not really anyway. Sameen, you are an alcoholic. And next time you wont be so lucky.”

 

“There wont be a next time,” Shaw spoke while trying to keep her entire body from shaking. “You can't keep me here.”

 

Doctor Tillman sighed once again, looking towards the door before back to Shaw. Only then did the detective realize that the name was familiar. “Sign yourself out, then. Just know that it's against medical advice.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Your belongings are here,” the doctor gestured to something outside of Shaw's line of sight. “Next time you end up here, and there _will_ be a next time, they'll be sending you downstairs.”

 

Doctor Tillman disconnected Shaw from the IV before leaving her alone in the room. Sameen was left to process everything she heard from the doctor. She reached up to touch a spot on her hairline that felt tight, and was met with a line of stitches. A head injury, dislocated shoulder, and sprained wrist, all in two days that she had no recollection of. What else could have happened?

 

 

>

 

 

 

_January 22 nd, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

It took Sameen longer than she would have liked to stand up from the hospital bed. By the time she walked into the bathroom with her bag of clothes, she was sweating, unable to stop herself from shaking. She leaned on the counter trying to catch her breath before getting dressed. Her long hair was freely falling down her shoulders, some of the locks obscuring the marks on her face. Small cuts were tended to, the nearly healed bruise on her cheek was overshadowed by the dark purple and red discoloration under her eye. At least the detective could be thankful that her nose was not broken as well, even though she could feel dried blood when she inhaled.

 

Sameen dug into the bag containing her belongings and dressed as quickly as she could, given her state. Her clothes were filthy, covered in dirt and blood. The scent of alcohol had made it's way into the fabric as well, and Shaw decided that she would probably need to throw the garments away when she had the chance. Holding her left arm close to her body, she finally leaves the hospital room.

 

As was the common theme lately, Root was standing in the hallway waiting for her. Shaw felt little annoyance at the sight, which was something of a surprise. The woman wore her usual brown overcoat on top of a dark dress. Her beautiful legs were snug in dark pantyhose, and black heels covered her feet. Root's hair had been curled, buoyant rings sat above her shoulders, but her eyes looked tired. Worry was clear on her face when she noticed Shaw. Her heels clicked on the hospital floor when she approached.

 

“Thank goodness you're all right.”

 

“Yeah,” Shaw exhaled a shaky breath, trying not to let nausea overcome her.

 

“Here,” Root offered her arm, “you can lean on me.”

 

Normally Shaw would vehemently refuse such a thing, however the convenience of Root's offer was stronger than her pride. She grasped the inside of Root's arm and the pair fell into a slow stride, walking towards the administration desk.

 

“I would ask how you knew I was here,” Shaw began, “you always seem to find me.”

 

From her peripheral vision, she could see Root's red lips turn slightly up. “This time you found me.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Root nodded thoughtfully, “Tilly mentioned you had some memory loss. You came to see me last night.”

 

“Oh,” the pair stopped walking once they reached the desk. Two people waited ahead of them, “do you know what happened to me then? How I got here?”

 

They took a single step towards the desk. “I think you already suffered most of your injuries by the time I saw you. You were covered in blood and you smelled of alcohol. You... weren't yourself.”

 

Shaw sighed, feeling the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I'm sorry, I guess.”

 

Root chuckled quietly, “don't be. You could have died if you'd been alone.”

 

It was finally their turn to be seen. Root led Shaw to the desk and stepped away, allowing her to sign the papers for her release, under the protest of the nurse behind the counter. Shaw asked how much money she owed, considering she had spent at least one night in the hospital, but the nurse informed her that it had already been taken care of. It was obvious that Root had been the one to pay, and while she wasn't comfortable owing Root anything, she had absolutely no cash in her pocket. Once she was finished, Root held out her arm again, the pair continuing to walk together.

 

When they reached the frigid outdoors, Shaw released the woman's arm and shielded her eyes. The sunlight seemed to pierce through her skull, reminding her that she would be dealing with a hangover for quite some time. She expected to part ways with Root, but the other woman had other ideas, placing her own hand on the detective's arm. “Let me take you home, Sameen. You've had a rough couple of days.”

 

“You don't have to look after me. I'll be fine,” though her voice was close to it's normal level, Shaw still felt tremendous weakness in her body. She was expending quite the effort to even remain standing. When she dared to uncover her eyes and look at her companion, Root was holding out a pair of large sunglasses. The detective took them and put them over her eyes, sighing at the relief they provided.

 

“Don't fight me on this,” Root said, drawing her hand back and sliding it inside her coat pocket. “If I had gone with my instinct and kept watching you the other night, you wouldn't be in this situation.”

 

Shaw considered her options, ultimately deciding that allowing Root to drive her home wasn't the worst. The alternative would be taking a taxi-cab that she couldn't pay for, or make the journey on foot, which she wouldn't exactly do right now either. She nodded to Root, who slipped her arm under Shaw's and led the way to her vehicle in the parking lot.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Shaw drew her overcoat closer to her body, the inside of Root's vehicle surprisingly chilly. Or perhaps it was her own physical state that made her more susceptible to the low temperature. The sky was gray, and snow was lightly falling, as it had been the night she passed out on the sidewalk. She made to check the time, only now noticing that her wrist watch was missing. Sighing, Shaw closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the red leather seat.

 

In only a few more minutes, they had arrived. After parking in the lot behind the building, Root immediately exited, coming to the passenger side to open the door for Shaw. The detective tried to walk unassisted, unfortunately her legs were still quite shaky from her ordeal and she was forced to lean on Root again. Neither spoke a word until they entered the lobby, stopping in front of the elevator.

 

“We're going to have to take the lift,” Root said as the pair entered the lobby. “Unless you want me to carry you.”

 

Shaw looked up at the other woman, seeing the barely contained smile and shook her head. “It's a short ride.”

 

Though sometimes uneasy in an elevator, the ride was more manageable than in the past. Shaw closed her eyes, tucked her chin against her chest, and used Root as an anchor to the ground, ignoring how close the four walls were to her body. Before they knew it, their ride was over and the pair made their way into Shaw's apartment.

 

In reality, the journey from the hospital to her apartment was less than one hour, to Shaw it felt like days. Now that she was back home, she wasn't sure what to do with herself. Eventually, the real world will catch up, and she will be reminded of what pushed her back down the addict's path. She shook her head, slowly slipping her soiled coat from her shoulders, first she would need to focus on getting well again. Shaw tightly held her left shoulder, still a little stiff from her injury, and turned to Root after slipping the glasses from her face.

 

“Thanks for everything,” Shaw rolled her shoulder, “I guess.”

 

Root's eyes lingered on Shaw's arm before they came up. “Do you need me to make a sling for your arm?” Her skeptical look must have been clear, Root raised an eyebrow. “I've had to assist with a few medical emergencies.” Since she wasn't exactly in a position to do it herself, she agreed.

 

Shaw directed Root to the medical trunk she kept under the sink in the bathroom. The woman took off her brown coat, hanging it on the hook beside the door, and disappeared from sight. Shaw slowly crossed to the kitchen and eased herself into a chair, shedding her white-collared shirt and tossing it inside the nearby waste bin. She shivered, either from the chill in the air or her long hair tickling the skin. Her undershirt was probably the most clean of all her clothes. Root returned with a white piece of fabric, folding it into a triangle shape.

 

“Stand up for me?”

 

Shaw complied, doing her best to remain still as Root slipped the fabric between her chest and forearm. Sameen couldn't help watching the other woman's face while she concentrated on the task, her brown hair framing her face. Root folded the fabric up over Shaw's arm, leaning over in order to tie the two ends together. She had to brush some of Shaw's hair aside, the feeling of Root's fingers in her hair was not unpleasant. Being so close, Sameen couldn't help be aware of Root's aroma. It was something fruity and fresh, whether a lotion or shampoo, the scent pulled her in the way an old scotch might do the same. Thankfully the other woman stepped back before Shaw was completely absorbed by it, though the effect of it seemed to linger for at least a few seconds.

 

“That should do for now,” Root had said, nodding at her work.

 

Shaw nodded in thanks, unsure of what to say. “I owe you.”

 

Root's smile touched her eyes when she looked at Shaw. “Get some rest.” Root took her coat off the hook and slipped her arms through while Shaw watched her. “Would you telephone me if you need anything?”

 

Already uncomfortable with the amount of time Root had spent looking after her, Shaw shook her head. She opened the door, “you've done enough already.”

 

Root walked into the hall, turning to face Shaw as she stopped at the threshold to her apartment. “Take care, Sameen,” she'd said. A beat passed, then Root stepped close to Shaw. She tried not to react as Root pressed her lips to her cheek, where her bruise had been.

 

When they parted, Shaw waited until Root entered the elevator before shutting her own door. She felt the imprint of Root's warm lips on her skin until she fell asleep.

 

 

>

 

 

_January 23 rd, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Shaw enjoyed a dreamless sleep, however she felt as though her rest had been merely a blink before she woke in a cold sweat. Her limbs still shook and her head spun furiously. She tried to get out of bed quickly, tumbling to the floor when her legs gave out from underneath. Sameen's arm, still secure in her sling, was close to her body, creating a feeling of claustrophobia. Scratching at the fabric, she frantically worked to get herself free, perspiration building on her forehead from the effort.

 

Feelings of nausea began creeping in as she managed to undo the sling. Her cold sweat changes to burning hot, and she begins to crawl across the floor towards the bathroom, making it just in time to vomit into the toilet. When the sickness begins to subside, Sameen eases herself down onto her side, letting the cool floor sooth her aching body. Sameen thought on the events of yesterday, trying to recall what happened to her from the hospital to her home until she decided that her memory was intact. She remained on the ground for several minutes, though she was eventually able to raise herself back up, leaning her hand against a wall for balance.

 

She walked into the kitchen and turned the tap on, filling an empty glass with cold water. Unsure of what her stomach could handle, she took tentative sips, feeling refreshed with each one.

 

Yesterday's ordeal was in the past, forcing her to deal with how to handle her future. She could take the money given to her by Root and leave the city, better herself somewhere warm. Shaw scoffed, how long until the sunny days made her insane with boredom? No, she was more likely to remain in New York and return to her regular routine, once the events of the last month became more distant in her mind. She would go back to helping women track down their adulterous husbands, or following a trail of clues leading to missing jewelry.

 

Sighing, she returned to the bathroom, eager to begin this new day and figure out where to go from here.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

After cleaning up and disposing of all the clothes she was wearing during her blackout, Sameen dressed in gray slacks and a black sweater. She was opting for comfort and warmth, which her usual dress suit didn't always provide. Since her regular hat had blown away several days ago, she wore a gray newsboy cap, tucking her hair up inside. She selected a black overcoat from her closet, what the jacket lacked in length, it made up for in warmth, something she was thankful for. Though she still felt a chill slithering across her skin.

 

Before leaving the house, she retrieved some cash from underneath the loose floorboard by her bed and headed for the door. By the door was a small table where she usually set her keys down, today they were joined by the sunglasses Root had given to her yesterday afternoon. Shaw took both items and stepped from her apartment.

 

She only made it half a block before stopping to hail a cab to take her to the diner instead. She hoped that some of her energy would come back after she ate, for the moment she was still weak, her legs stiff and difficult to move. Shaw paid the driver upon arriving, and shuffled into the diner. Without her wristwatch, she wasn't sure the time of her arrival, but based on the small amount of customers, she guess it was after the breakfast rush.

 

Sameen took a seat at the counter, folding her arms and leaning heavily. She was thankful for the darkness her sunglasses provided, as her headache was coming back with a vengeance.

 

“What can I get for you, honey?” Shaw turned towards the sound, watching as the waitress' eyes lit up with recognition. “Sam! I didn't recognize you, where have you been?”

 

Shaw slipped the sunglasses from her face and placed them on the counter in front of her. Sally winced, possibly due to Shaw's dreadful state. “Working.”

 

“Now you know I don't like to pry, but honey what kind of work gets you a pretty little shiner like that one?” She gestured with her pencil.

 

“The fun kind,” despite the eventual outcome, Shaw couldn't help but recall the bar fight with a small smile. Though she couldn't quite remember taking a hit to the face in that instance, meaning her black-eye actually came from her black- _out_.

 

Sameen sighed, putting the sunglasses back on her face. Rather than her usual order of pancakes, she decided on buttered toast, home fries, and a black coffee. She scanned the newspaper while she nursed her breakfast, seeing if there was any more robberies or murders connected to what she and Root had been looking in to.

 

She picked at her food, taking tentative bites so as not to upset her stomach. The detective found herself unable to focus on the newspaper and eventually decided to return to her office. She even declined the waitress' offer for a piece of pie to take home, which was concerning in itself. Sameen wondered how long it would take to get back to her normal. The taxi-cab ride from the diner to her office is short. As Sameen steps into the room, memories of the last time she was here come back to her. Papers litter the floor, having been thrown off her desk, a bottle of liquor was lying next to her decanter, thankfully empty.

 

Sighing, the detective stuffs her hat into her coat pocket and hangs it on the hook, then begins to collect the items from the floor. Her notes on the murders catch her eye, as does the map of New York city she had been marking. She thinks of all the women in the area who are at risk, living close to these dangerous crimes. The police, who obviously aren't concerned about them, had made no progress in figuring out who might have done this. Hell, Shaw and Root probably knew more than they did.

 

Then, her thoughts came to Root. The woman asked for her help to find out who murdered her friend, to which Shaw agreed only to later abstain from the investigation. Root then helped Shaw after her incident at the hospital without asking for anything in return. Shaw owed Root a debt, in addition to the obligation she felt towards Hanna and Wendy for not doing more to help prevent their deaths.

 

Shaw plucked the phone up for her desk, spun the dial and waited for the call to connect. When she thought no one would answer, Root's voice floated through the phone. “ _Hello?_ ”

 

Shaw sighed, considering for one final moment before she spoke. Her perspective on the situation shifted, even if only a little bit. It was enough to fuel her determination and belief that she could stop whoever was killing these women. And she couldn't do it alone. Sameen took a breath and spoke clearly:

 

“I want to help you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now Shaw and Root can finally work together to find the killer. Thanks for reading!
> 
> St. James Infirmary- Cab Calloway


	12. Needle in a Haystack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and Root make some progress.

 

_January 24th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

Root agreed to meet with Shaw in her office the next evening. In the daytime, Shaw ran some outstanding errands including a trip to the bank, the market, and the diner for some coffee to-go. A few weeks ago she would have been able to make most of the journey on foot but given her recent medical problems, her feet were sluggish. She found that she'd lose her breath after only walking a few blocks, her skin would burn with sweat, then be immobilized with chills a few minutes later. She wondered how long she would suffer the effects of her recent trip to the hospital.  Still she pressed on, recognizing that solving this crime was more important than her personal problems.  Sameen took some time to return to some of the pawn shops in the immediate area surrounding the crimes as well.

 

The man who she had previously learned of, Jimmy, had apparently been making the rounds getting appraisals on some pieces of jewelry. The pawn broker remembered seeing gold earrings and at least two different rings, which caught Shaw's attention. Could this Jimmy person be the thief _and_ the murderer? Or simply the fence? The pawn broker wasn't able to give any more information, either he didn't remember or his silence had been paid for already. Regardless, it was a lead that she and Root could look into.

 

The cab ride back to her office took much more time than anticipated, as snow had begun to fall heavily on the city. Visibility was poor, and vehicles slid through intersections, tires useless against the thick snow. The convulsing of the car as it struggled against the elements made Shaw nauseous, it was all she could do not to throw up in the back seat. When they finally arrived at her office, she tipped the driver generously and climbed out of the car as quickly as she could. Sameen struggled with her steps, the ground blanketed in white powder. She eventually stumbled into the door to her building, white snow sticking to her trousers where her feet had sank down. She entered the building and climbed the stairs to her office, removing her hat and shaking the flakes down to the ground.

 

Root was waiting at the door when she arrived, her brown coat covered in melting snow. The woman was brushing some of the water from her sleeves when she noticed Shaw approaching. Root removed her black hat and smiled, her nose and cheeks were tinted pink from being outside. “Nice to see you, detective.”

 

Shaw nodded, drawing the keys from her coat pocket. “You didn't let yourself in?”

 

Root placed a hand flat on her chest, showing mock-offense, “I would never.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Shaw finished unlocking the door and stepped inside with Root behind her. The two women hung their coats on the rack next to the door, Shaw lighting a cigarette as she crossed to her desk. She switched on the lamp to illuminate the work area: the map of New York city had been laid out, her notebook open and the most recent _Inquisitor_.

 

Shaw sat down behind her desk, meanwhile Root reached into the accordion briefcase she carried and drew out several pieces of paper, which Shaw assumed as part of the mast client list. Without her heavy brown coat, Root wore a flattering red dress that matched the color of her lips, Shaw admired it as she sat down at the desk across from her. The first thing to do would be to find the names of the clients that were on the missing pages of Hanna's black book. Shaw told Root as much, and the woman gave half the stack of papers to Shaw, and took the rest for herself to read through.

 

Every so often, the detective looked up to watch Root, her brown eyes scanning left to right. Shaw had previously written down the names that appeared before _and_ after the missing pages, now it was only a matter of finding the connecting piece. She put her papers on the desk, flicking ash from her cigarette into the tray.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

Root answered without looking up, “absolutely.”

 

Shaw considered for a moment, “you're Samantha Groves.”

 

“Is that a question?” Root replied with a quirk of her eyebrow. Shaw rolled her eyes, snuffing the cigarette. Finally, Root put the paper on her lap and met the detective's gaze. “I use the name when it's suitable, conducting business for Miss Morgan and other such things. But to answer your question: no. I haven't been her for years.”

 

While still vague, that was more forthcoming than expected. “And Constance Ward?”

 

Root smiled, something akin to pride shining in her eyes. “Another mask,” she took the paper in her hand and continued to read. “I do what I have to for information.”

 

Shaw smirked, going back to read her half of the file as well. “You'd made a good P.I.,” Root smiled, but didn't look up, the sparkle behind her eyes seemed to speak louder than words. It gave Shaw pause, “wait a minute.”

 

She considered everything she knew on the other woman: Root was aware of Shaw's history, her patterns and tendencies. She somehow got access to information from the police station immediately following Hanna's death, including a key piece of evidence. Root could anticipate almost every one of Shaw's moves, not to mention she was pretty handy with a lock-pick, and who knows what else. Her job as The Fix's pianist kept her in the middle of any information that may flow through the club, her demeanor as a humble musician was incredibly disarming. Zoe mentioned she had a special consultant in her employ, and Root's role in her organization has never really been made clear. Well, until now. _Son of a—_

 

“Sameen,” Root spoke up, unaware of the realization that Shaw had just come to. “I found it.”

 

Root turns her paper over to Shaw, and a total of four names are detailed: Patrick Simmons, James Stills, Raymond Terney, and Michael Laskey. “Do any of these names also appear on her final entry?”

 

“That's just it,” Root frowned, “Hanna was killed before she submitted her book for transcription that week.”

 

Shaw leaned back in her chair, the metal creaking under her weight. She read the names again, one of them standing out as being familiar. “Simmons...”

 

“What is it, Shaw?”

 

She shook her head, “I thought I recognized someone, but the occupation doesn't match.” Each of Zoe's employees kept detailed records of their clients, including their job, and the time that they were seen in. The Simmons that Shaw knew of was a police officer, this one was listed as a mailman. Although...

 

“It wouldn't be difficult to lie. We don't run to our cop friends to get background checks on the clients.” Shaw raised an eyebrow. No doubt Root was aware that Shaw had done that very thing early in this investigation. “Who is it?”

 

“Patrick Simmons.”

 

A thoughtful look crossed over Root's face, as if she was trying to recall something. “The police report listed him as the first officer on scene after Hanna was killed.”

 

Carter told her the same thing, Shaw recalled. The policewoman also mentioned that Simmons wasn't one to follow the rules. He could have been in to see Hanna, killed her, then called the cops himself to report _and_ respond to the crime. It was smart, if true, that didn't answer the _why_ , though.

 

Shaw rolled the sleeves of her dark sweater up to her elbows and Root spoke up again, “he wasn't the attending officer when Wendy was killed.”

 

“Maybe not...” Shaw stood from her desk and started pacing by the window. Three steps, turn, three steps. Her hands dug in her trouser pocket, looking for her cigarettes without success. “The officer who questioned me at the station after I called in the murder...”

 

“What about him?” Root reached into her satchel and drew her own pack of cigarettes, Chesterfield was the brand. She took one for herself and offered the package to Shaw.

 

“His name was Terney,” Shaw mumbled as she pulled a smoke out and placed it between her lips. She found a book of matches in her pocket, striking one to light the tip. She tossed the book to Root who caught it without breaking eye-contact.

 

“Raymond?”

 

The detective sat back down at her desk, blowing smoke into the ceiling. “First initial R. Can't be a coincidence.” He might have even been the fucker who punched her.

 

While this revelation was nothing concrete, it was something to build off of. They could check over the list to see if the names appeared on the books of anyone else. Shaw pulled the telephone off the cradle with the intention of reaching Carter. Perhaps her friend could offer some insight on the two men, at the very least. As soon as she spun the first number on the rotary dial, the lamp on her desk flickered before going completely dark, making a small _pop_ sound. Her office was bathed in darkness, the only light coming from the burning embers on the two lit cigarettes.

 

“Damn storm must have knocked the power,” no longer hearing the dial tone, Shaw hung the phone up and stood from her desk, placing her smoke on the ashtray. She returned to the window to open the blinds. Snow had fallen heavily in the time that she and Root had been working, the entire city covered in a thick white blanket. Cars parked on the street were almost completely invisible, the air filled with large white flakes. Despite being quite late in the evening, the snow provided a small amount of illumination. Shaw sighed and turned to face Root.

 

“I suppose it's time for me to leave.”

 

Shaw shook her head. With the amount of snow already on the ground it was unlikely Root would even make it to her vehicle, never mind actually driving it. “You'll never make it out in these conditions. It wouldn't be safe.”

 

Root raised an eyebrow, her smile bright even in darkness. “Concerned for my safety, detective?”

 

“No,” Sameen rolled her eyes, “I still need you for this investigation. Can't have you wandering out in a storm.”

 

Root stood from the desk and walked towards the window, looking to survey the weather for herself. “Is that all?”

 

Her pale skin was practically glowing in the winter light. Shaw swallowed hard, her eyes drifting up Root's neck, across her jawline, and to her red painted lips. It was obvious that Root was interested in a repeat of their night together, and a tryst would be an excellent way to alleviate frustration. However, they _should_ be focusing on finding out who killed these women. Even still, Shaw felt a calm in Root's presence, one that that seemed to grow since Root helped her in the hospital. Perhaps the feeling was brought on by the fact that they were finally making some kind of progress in the case, having Simmons as their primary lead to follow up. Along with Root revealing the nature of her work, Shaw now recognized feelings of trust towards the other woman. Root turned her head to look at Shaw, the detective could feel electricity spark between them.

 

“You know, Sameen,” Root began, the movement of her lips was hypnotic. “With the power out, it wont be long before we're freezing in here.”

 

Shaw nodded. It was her intention to have some kind of fireplace installed in her office for this very situation, however, her issues with alcohol around Christmas pushed those plans back. The detective leaned her head against the cold window, seeing Root from her peripheral vision take a step closer. “Could be a rough night.”

 

Root continued her advance until their bodies were nearly flush. “Not to worry,” she'd said, her voice low. “I have a solution.”

 

Shaw maintained eye contact as Root leaned closer, the woman rested her palm on the glass behind them, nearly trapping her in place. “And what's that?”

 

Root's smile, clear in the darkness, said _I thought you'd never ask_. She dipped her head, pressing her cheek against Shaw's, her skin was warm, breath hot in Shaw's ear when she spoke: “Body heat.” Root's arm snaked around Shaw's waist, while red painted lips peppered a kiss to her neck.

 

Despite the falling temperature in the room and the shiver now dancing up her spine, Sameen felt warmer already.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

_Sameen stumbles down a hallway, the world around her spins. She's reminded of when she was a child, playing on the round-about. When she feels about to retch, she stops in front of a door. Still dizzy, Sameen leans heavily against the door frame, knocking on the wood._

 

“ _Hey!” She calls out. At least, she_ thinks _she's calling out, her voice sounds different, foreign. As if it's coated in a thick syrup._

 

_Eventually the door opens, the face of Root is there to greet her. Her hair sits above her shoulders, having been recently coiled, and she's wearing a black dress. Sameen pushes inside, bumping both into the door and then the wall inside the landing. The door is closed behind her._

 

“ _You look terrible,” Root said, taking in Sameen's appearance with crossed arms._

 

_And you look beautiful, she wants to say. Root's dress is short, giving Sameen the opportunity to admire her legs, which she does without shame._

 

“ _What's happened to you?” Root asks, her brow furrowed, “what are you doing here?”_

 

_Sameen doesn't know what Root might be talking about. Did something happen to her? She can't remember. She remembers people dying around her, and men trying to fight with her. She remembers pretty colors, drinks that warmed her body, and snow. Sameen knows that she's been walking, that much is clear from the throbbing in her calves. Her face feels stiff as well, had she been outside for too long? How did she get here?_

 

“ _Sameen?” Root speaks again. The sound of her name on the woman's lips is exhilarating. Sameen lunges forward, taking Root by the shoulders and pulling her in. Their lips crash together in a messy union, which takes the other woman by surprise. Moments later, Sameen feels Root's hands on her, but not in the way she's expecting or hoping for. She's being pushed away._

 

_Already unstable on her feet, Sameen stumbles, her back hitting the wall behind her as the women are separated. The apartment spins, her eyes unable to keep focus on anything. She feels her insides tremble, the intensity growing as the sensation begins to spread. Sameen holds her head, the nauseating feeling becoming unbearable. She is paralyzed as her body convulses, her eyes squeezing shut. Root calls to her again, grasping at Sameen's shoulder's now._

 

_It's not enough, Sameen falls to the ground, the ringing in her ears drowning out all other noise. She opens her eyes, but sees nothing. Her world has gone white, yet in the distance she hears her name:_

 

_Sameen._

 

_Wake up._

 

 

>

 

 

“Sameen,” the voice is quiet, close by. “Wake up.”

 

Shaw opens her eyes with a gasp, launching up into a sitting position, the room vibrating around her. She closes her eyes, both palms pressing against her head in an attempt to settle the storm. She could feel her body trembling all over, reeling from what she had seen in her sleep.

 

“It's all right,” a voice says, followed by a warm hand on her back.

 

Feeling waves of calm with each breath, Shaw finally opens her eyes to look around. She's in the bedroom attached to her office, early morning light is streaming in from the window of the office proper. She looks to her left and sees Root, recalling how they'd spent the evening together. Root's idea of “preserving warmth” was interesting to say the least, and certainly effective.

 

Before either woman can speak, Shaw hears her telephone begin to ring in the next room. Sometime last night the power must have come back on. Taking the top sheet to wrap herself in, Shaw got up from her bed and crossed into the office. Despite only being a few steps away, she was immediately out of breath, blaming her thundering heartbeat and shaking limbs.

 

Clutching the bed sheet with one hand, Shaw picked up the telephone receiver with the other. “Hello?”

 

“ _Shaw, it's Joss,_ ” the connection held some static. “ _Just checking in after the storm. How are you holding up?_ ”

 

Shaw glanced to the bedroom door, “I managed.”

 

They carry a short conversation about last night, Shaw of course leaving out the fact that she was not alone while working on a case. Her friend had told her the difficulties of responding to calls when their cars are practically trapped in the lot, the benefit being that most criminals were snowed in as well. She didn't mention any developments in the cases of the murdered call girls, either there wasn't one, or Joss was trying to keep her out of the loop.

 

“Can you tell me anything about Patrick Simmons?” Shaw asked when their conversation began to wind down.

 

“ _Simmons?_ _Not much. Been working the beat for years,_ ” Carter began. “ _I've had some suspicions about him in the past._ ”

 

“What kind of suspicions?”

 

“ _Let's just say that drug money tends to go missing when he and his pal from Vice work the same case._ ”

 

Shaw sat on the edge of her desk, clutching the sheet wrapped around her. Stealing drug money is one thing, murder is something much bigger. “How can I find him?”

 

“ _He was one of the lucky ones not on call yesterday or today,_ ” she paused. Shaw could hear the gears turning in her head, “ _what are you up to, Shaw?_ ”

 

“Trying to do some follow up work for a case.” Root's form appears in the doorway to her bedroom, the woman had helped herself to a robe from the bathroom. “I'll catch up with you later,” Shaw didn't wait for a response before placing the handset back down.

 

“I must say,” Root began, gesturing with her hand, “the disheveled, morning-after look is quite flattering on you, detective.”

 

Shaw's retort died on her tongue when her telephone rang again. With a sigh, Shaw plucked the receiver up again. “What now?”

 

“ _Is that any way to answer your telephone?_ ” The voice of Zoe Morgan scolded her.

 

“What do _you_ want?”

 

“ _Right, y_ _ou like to get straight to business,_ ” she paused, then: “ _Put Root on the line._ ”

 

Shaw turned her head towards her companion, holding out the telephone. “It's for you.”

 

Root took the phone from Shaw and made herself comfortable in the chair behind the desk, while Shaw remained sitting on the edge. Shaw had to wonder how Zoe knew to find Root here.

 

“Yes?” The conversation was brief, but Shaw tried her best to get a read on what they were talking about. Root's face slipped from carefree morning glow, to a hardened gaze, fierce and focused. “I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Root hung the phone up while Shaw continued to watch her. “What is it?”

 

“Someone else was attacked last night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's dream sequence was actually a memory from her black-out.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Needle in a Haystack - Will Osborne


	13. Anything Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw uncovers a clue that points to the perpetrator.

 

 

_January 25 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

The news of another one of Zoe's employees being attacked was shocking, but then Root had said they were _attacked_ , not killed, which Shaw took as a good sign. Zoe told Root that someone had broken into Sofia's apartment during the storm. Given the recent incidents surrounding her girls, Zoe has apparently decided to move everyone that remained to one safe-house with security around the clock. She needed Root's help to accomplish this quickly.

 

“Does Sofia know who attacked her?” Shaw asked, after both women had dressed and were prepared to leave the office. The road crews had begun to clear the streets, driving would be difficult, but manageable.

 

Root shook her head, “Zoe didn't say. Tilly is with her now.”

 

Doctor Tillman, she recalled, was the name of Zoe's physician. “What will you do?”

 

“I'll start by helping some of the other girls get moved. If there's time before this evening, I'd like to examine Sofia's apartment for clues.”

 

“Wont the police be taking care of that?”

 

Root scoffed as she walked towards the door, taking her brown coat from the hook. “She would never call the police.”

 

Despite the obvious enmity between the two, at least Root was still willing to lend her services to find out what happened, which Shaw couldn't help respect. The pair made their way out of the office and into the lot where Root had left her vehicle last night. Using a corn broom that she found in the lobby of her building, Shaw worked to brush the snow from the hood and roof of the car, as Root climbed inside to start the engine.

 

“You should be able to get through now,” Shaw said after she'd finished sweeping the surrounding snow away. She leaned the broom against the building.

 

Root rolled her window down to respond, “thanks sweetheart. Can I take you anywhere?”

 

Shaw cupped her hands, blowing inside in an attempt to warm her fingers. “As long as I don't have to pay you.”

 

Root looked at her wryly, before nodding towards the passenger door. “Get in.”

 

 

>

 

 

A few minutes into their drive, Shaw found herself wishing there was an alternate route to be taken. She asked Root to take her to the police station, the problem being how treacherous the drive was. Shaw, still recovering from her blackout, found her stomach weaker than ever, and was nearly forced to ask Root to stop the car so she could retch on the sidewalk. When they did make it to the police station, Root apologized for the rough ride, meanwhile Shaw was just thankful to be on the street breathing the cold air, which seemed to help settle her stomach.

 

Root opened her door and stepped out, leaning over the roof of her car. “When should we reconvene?”

 

Shaw considered for a moment. Root had told her that she would be playing with the band at Zoe's club tonight after helping the girls get settled in to the safe house. Shaw certainly didn't want to step foot inside The Fix, but that didn't mean the investigation had to be suspended in the meantime. “Call my office tonight once you've finished. We can decide then.”

 

“Be careful, detective,” Root said as she eased back into the driver's seat of her motor vehicle. Shaw touched two fingers to her temple in salute, watching as the woman drove away.

 

Shaw entered the police station from the side, rather than the building's main door. She was dressed in black slacks, a black sweater, and a black coat and cap. Earlier Root remarked that she looked like a burglar, which was an apt description considering what she was here for.

 

The building was mostly deserted, a few uniformed officers at their desks taking phone calls, dispatching different units to emergencies, or organizing their paperwork. By keeping her head down, Shaw was able to walk into the locker room undetected. It was her intention to check Simmons' locker for any clues or evidence that may incriminate him in the murders of Zoe's girls. If he was dirty, as Carter had suggested, he may be too smart to leave something behind, however he may also be too confident to care.

 

It only took Shaw a few minutes to find the locker with Simmons' name attached to it. Using pins from her hair, she was able to pick the padlock and open the compartment. Inside she could see his uniform coat hanging on the hook, and black boots sitting on the bottom shelf. Also hanging inside was a whistle and what looked to be his police issued belt.

 

“Damn it,” Shaw said to herself, reaching up to see if there was anything on the top shelf, and all she felt was a few papers. Sighing, she pulled what ended up being a newspaper down from the shelf and examined it. She furrowed her brow upon seeing the date on the paper as being January 2nd. Why would Simmons have such an old _Inquisitor_ in his locker? Shaw reached into the top shelf of his locker again to see if she missed something but it was empty.

 

She heard the door to the locker room open, her head snapping towards the sound. “Shit,” she tucked the paper under her arm and slowly closed the locker, trying to make as little noise as possible. She then put the padlock back in place and quickly dashed to the end of the row to hide herself. Shaw could hear the footsteps of two men approaching, straining to eavesdrop on their conversation, her thundering heartbeat was much louder, unfortunately. All she could hear from the two officers were complaints about having to work during a snow day, and questions about why criminals even bother when the weather is terrible.

 

Shaw rolled her eyes at their incompetence, breathing a small sigh of relief when she heard the steps fading away. She remained in her hiding place for several minutes before peaking from behind the lockers. When she determined that the coast was clear, she walked from the locker room and exited the police station without encountering any other people. Once she was outside, Shaw let out a breath that she was holding, and searched her pockets for cigarettes, setting one between her lips and lighting the tip. She began walking down the street towards her office before deciding to hail a taxi-cab to take her the rest of the way.

 

She glanced at the newspaper after giving the driver directions to her building. “Now, what are you hiding?”

 

 

>

 

 

Sameen thanked the driver, paid for the cab ride to her office and hastily entered the building. The newspaper she found was very curious, and the detective was interested in seeing what the significance of it was, if there was any to be found.

 

After shedding her coat and hat, Shaw flicks on the lamp at her desk and sits down. She lights another cigarette as she unfolds the paper, her eyes scanning for anything unusual. It appeared to be a regular issue of the _New York Inquisitor_ , however she noticed something odd when she turned to the first page: Someone had drawn circles over the print with black, blue, and red ink.

 

“What the...?” Shaw pulled open her desk drawer and retrieved a magnifying glass, using it to examine the paper more closely. It seemed like Simmons, or someone else, had circled random letters in the printed text. Shaw took her notebook and pen from the desk and began to copy the letters that were circled. Eventually she reached a point in the newspaper that was unblemished, having marked down over a dozen letters in each kind of ink. Before she folded the newspaper she noticed a piece of the paper sticking out, as if it was torn and then replaced. It looked like it was ripped out of a book, Shaw amended once she pulled it from the newspaper. It was a strange drawing of a hexagon with a colored circle at each point. Next to each circle was some text, as well as a dollar value, then at the bottom appeared to be a combined total. Both the blue and green circles had been crossed out with ink, the ones that remained were orange, white, one colorless, and a final was multicolored. What the hell was she looking at?

 

Shaw folded the paper back inside the _Inquisitor_ and placed them inside her desk drawer. Rolling the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows and snuffing her cigarette, she prepared to decode what she had found. Several times she had to tear the page from her notebook and start again, cryptography was never her strong suit, but she continued working, hoping to find something that connected Simmons to the murder of the women.

 

It occurred to her that this code could merely be Simmons' way of gambling without being caught, sending secret messages to his mistress, or something equally nefarious. Shaw sighed and rubbed her eyes, wondering if Root was as good with puzzles as she was with, well, most everything else.

 

Still she sat and worked the day away, putting letters in sequence after sequence until the words started to make sense. Eventually she had them in an order that could resemble a message.

 

 _Monday at midnight. Two-zero-two. Green on Rockaway._ Then:

 

_Ongoing investigation. Caution. Friday eleven-thirty. One-one-zero. Blue on Kings._

 

_White Friday. Possible delay. Storm inbound. Rockaway two-zero-three._

 

With these in mind, Simmons _definitely_ had something going on. Shaw sat back and read them several times over until first message triggered something in her memory. Flipping back to the entries she made in her notebook after Hanna was killed, the pieces of this puzzle began to fall together: Hanna Frey, who lived on a street called Rockaway, was killed on a Monday night. Similarly, Wendy McNally died on a Friday, her building on a street called Kings. Last night was a Friday as well, the message mentioned that the storm was delaying their operation.

 

At first Shaw didn't understand the significance of the colors mentioned in each of the messages. She then opened her desk drawer again and retrieved the piece of paper found inside the _Inquisitor._

 

“Son of a bitch,” she said to herself. In her mind she could still see Hanna's bright green ring sparkling on her middle finger when the young woman sat across from her in the diner. The colors not only corresponded to the strange image she found, but they matched the rings worn by Zoe's girls. Shaw would bet all the cash she'd ever earned that the rest of them had rings to match the pattern. Based on her map of the burgled apartments, the targets seemed to be random, while still concentrating on the same area. The perpetrator must have received more information recently, seeing as the crimes were becoming more specific. Victims of opportunity like Diane Hanson were no longer a priority, which led Shaw to believe that Simmons knew where Zoe's employees lived, and that they had what he was looking for.

 

She checked the sheet again to see the total value of the jewelry and produced a low whistle. “You don't skimp, do you, Miss Morgan?” Shaw said to no one.

 

The complete set of six rings sold for an estimated one hundred thousand dollars, each individual piece roughly sixteen thousand on it's own. Though still left with questions, such as where this paper came from, or how Simmons figured out that Zoe's employees had the jewelry, she was eager to share what she learned with Root. Perhaps with Shaw's notes, the decoded messages, and a statement from Zoe, the police might have grounds to bring Simmons in and prevent him from killing anyone else in search of these items.

 

The detective lifted the phone off the cradle and began spinning the dial in an attempt to reach the club. After a few tones, a woman answered. “ _Hello?_ ”

 

“I need to speak with Root.”

 

The woman, whom she assumed was Zoe's secretary, paused. “ _I'm afraid Miss Groves is working at the moment. Would you like me to pass on a message?_ ”

 

Shaw rolled her eyes, recalling the last time she spoke with the secretary. “No.”

 

She hung up the phone and stood from the desk, leaving her work in place. Root must be close to finishing, so Shaw decided that she would meet her there. That way she could share the new developments as soon as possible, and the pair could figure out their next move.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Shaw began walking in the direction of The Fix, not wanting to waste any time in getting to Root and figuring out what the next step of their investigation was. After a few blocks she was able to get the attention of a taxi-cab that took her the rest of the way. Snow was no longer falling, the main artery roads had been mostly cleared, which meant driving was significantly safer than it was earlier today. Shaw predicted that the white powder would turn to wet mush and be pushed aside in the next day or so.

 

She paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk, walking up the steps to the club. Shaw paused in front of the door, almost reconsidering the urgency she came here with. Only a few days had passed since she woke up in the hospital, having lost days of her memory at the hands of alcohol, and she wasn't yet confident in her mental state. Every time she blinked, she could see the beautiful colored bottles of liquor lined up behind the counter, whether here at Zoe's club, the market near her house, or the bar that served as her last memory before passing out on the sidewalk.

 

Clenching her fists, Shaw took a deep breath before pushing open the doors. The lives of Zoe's girls, and who knows how many others, depended on her ability to conquer her own demons. The warmth inside the club in contrast to the cold outside hit her immediately, as did the sound of the band playing on the stage to her right.

 

As soon as her eyes landed on the bar, more specifically _behind_ the bar, the sounds in the club turned into white noise. Shaw felt pressure building behind her eyes, then sensation began slipping away, leaving her light headed and dizzy. Sameen blinks heavily in an attempt to bring her focus back to the present when she feels herself take a step towards the counter. She almost died a week ago, why did she think this would be easy?

 

Then, she feels an arm over her shoulder, the force guiding her away from the counter. The further she gets from the bar, the more her surroundings are coming into focus. Patrons are enjoying food and drink while the music continues, nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, as far as they can tell. Shaw then realizes that the person pulling her from temptation is, of course, Root. Her musician comrade had apparently left her post on the stage in favor of greeting Shaw, who hadn't even noticed the change in the tune being played by the band. Root had stopped walking and turned to face Shaw, keeping her arm over the detective's shoulder, as well as taking her hand. She pulled their bodies close.

 

“I think it's time we shared a dance, detective,” Root said as she began to sway to the rhythm of the music. Tonight Root was wearing a dress that was colored blue. The length reached her knees and was completely sleeveless.

 

Shaw looked up at the other woman. “I'm not going to dance with you, Root.”

 

Root smiled, “no need to be timid, Sameen. We've already done the horizontal tango after all.”

 

“God,” Shaw rolled her eyes, roughly placing her arm around Root's waist. It was then she learned that her companion's dress was backless as well, her hands grazing soft skin for the briefest moment. “You're unbearable.”

 

Root's expression remained unchanged. She seemed content in their embrace. “And yet here you are.”

 

Several beats passed as they continued to step in rhythm with each other as well as the music. It was a few minutes before she realized how much calmer she was. “I found something in Simmons locker,” Shaw said quietly. “A code.”

 

“What did you learn?”

 

Shaw recalled the messages she'd deciphered in the _Inquisitor_ , as well as the strange photograph that was tucked inside. She considered the connection to the women and each piece of jewelry they'd been given as she looked to Root's hand, to the large ring on her middle finger that seemed to be a different color each time she saw it.

 

“I know what Simmons is after. And I think you're in danger.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Once their dance had concluded, Shaw filled in the rest of the gaps for Root as they sat in a booth together. She told Root of the method Simmons (and possibly others) used to communicate with each other while still being inconspicuous. It wasn't unusual for police officers to be passing a newspaper among themselves, after all. She then told her of the drawing that detailed what she believed to be the unique rings given to each of Zoe's employees, and how Simmons was likely planning to sell the complete set once he was able to obtain the remaining ones. Root pointed out that since the girls had been moved to a safe-house, it would be more difficult for them to be located and burgled, which gave them an edge. While they spoke, Root had the waiter bring out two glasses of water, and a deck of playing cards. She took the cards in her hands and shuffled them effortlessly, leaving Shaw to wonder if there was anything she _couldn't_ do with those hands...

 

“I say we use this to our advantage,” Root began, placing two cards in front of Shaw. One was face down and the other showed a six of hearts. Root placed two cards in front of her as well, showing the nine of hearts. Blackjack, she figured.

 

“How?” Shaw replied, peaking at her hidden card, the four of spades. She tapped the table with her index finger to request another.

 

“I can put the word out about the girls being moved to a different location,” Root passed another card to Shaw, the seven of diamonds, while giving herself another as well. “I give my address as the safe-house, and we ambush him and his crew when they arrive to claim their prize.”

 

Shaw considered for a moment before tapping the table again. Root dealt her a three of clubs. “You wanna use yourself as bait?”

 

“Do you have a better idea?” Root dealt herself another card, the five of clubs. “Nineteen.”

 

“Twenty,” Shaw said, flipping her card over. Root smiled and collected the cards, preparing to deal again. The detective's eyes wandered behind her to the bar, trying not to be entranced by the bartenders movements behind the counter.

 

“Look here, Sameen,” she heard Root say, and her attention was brought back to the new hand at the table. Root seemed to be making an effort to keep her attention on anything besides the bar.

 

They play several more games, until the deck of cards is spent and has to be re-shuffled. The pair discuss the details of Root's plan to lure Simmons and his colleagues to her, Shaw protesting at the danger, Root assuring her that she is capable of defending herself.

 

“We still have the upper hand,” Root began as she collected the cards and slid from the booth. Shaw followed suit, pausing as Root offered her arm. Rolling her eyes, Shaw started walking towards the doors, Root falling into step beside her. “We'll be expecting him.”

 

Shaw nodded, though she couldn't help be skeptical. Root had touched upon her ability to defend herself, Shaw just wasn't sure how the woman would go about doing that. Shaw knew that Root had some physical strength, as learned from their sexual encounters, that didn't exactly mean she could protect herself if Simmons had a weapon, or numbers when he came to her apartment. Assuming their plan worked, that is.

 

The pair stopped once they reached the exit doors. Shaw turned to Root: “You comin' with me to the office? You can see if I missed anything in the newspaper messages.”

 

Root's lips turned up in a smirk, “Miss Morgan should probably be aware of the plan we've come up with...”

 

The detective nodded, picking up on Root's hesitation, “I have a telephone, you know.”

 

Root smiled fully now as she shifted on her feet, her eyes downcast in embarrassment. She gestured to the door that led back into Zoe's office. “I'll go tell her I'm leaving. Meet you outside?”

 

Shaw nodded, her eyes trained on Root's figure as she walked away. When she disappeared from sight, the detective headed for the doors herself, feeling the relief of no longer being close to the temptation of the bar.

 

Once outside, Shaw pat her trouser pockets in search for cigarettes, only to find that she had none left. Sighing, she started to walk down the street with the intention of making a quick stop at the market on the corner. It wasn't far from The Fix, and she figured she would be back outside by the time Root came out to meet her.

 

The street was deserted, seeing as it was getting to be late in the evening. Shaw passed a man leaning against the brick of a building, and she watched from her peripheral as his head followed her movement. Her senses became more alert when she heard him push from the wall and fall into step behind her. She tried not to make any kind of assumption, while simultaneously wishing she still carried her firearm as she continued to walk down the dark street.

 

She came up on an alleyway just before the market, when another man stepped from the shadows, moving to block her path. Shaw stopped walking to look at the man's face: he was a white male with blue eyes, wearing a dark leather jacket a dark hat, and a very stern expression.

 

“You and I need to have some words,” the man said, his voice low.

 

“I don't think we do,” Shaw replied with a small shake of her head.

 

“The thing is,” he began, “I ain't really askin'.”

 

Shaw then heard the very distinct _click_ of a revolver's hammer being pulled back, presumably from the man behind her. The suspicion was confirmed when a hard metal cylinder was pressed into her back. She sighed, lazily lifting both hands up, and the man in front of her gestured into the alley he'd appeared from. Presently having no choice, she followed until they reached the center of the alley where a third man was waiting. The gunman behind her stopped and shoved her towards the brick wall, weapon still trained on her.

 

“You seem like a reasonable person,” the first man said, sliding his hands into his coat pocket. Shaw glanced to the third man, the one who waited in the alley: tall and thin, brown hair and brown eyes. He looked like a teenager. Shaw looked back to enemy number one.

 

“Okay...”

 

“You need to stop asking questions about some dead whores.”

 

Shaw bobbed her head in recognition. So _that's_ what this was all about. Well, in that case: “Fuck you.”

 

The gunman scoffed, “see? I told you this was pointless. Let me put her down right now.”

 

The first man glared at the gunman, taking a step closer to Shaw. He placed both hands on her shoulders and Shaw inhaled sharply through her nose. She could feel her blood begin to boil at the contact. “That's bad news for you, detective,” the man said, false sincerity coloring his words. He then looked to the third man, the teenager, and said: “looks like we need to give the lady a more serious warning.”

 

Shaw watched the teenager rub his knuckles nervously. While her attention was on him, the first man released her shoulder and swung his fist across her face. The impact was equal parts shocking and devastating, the force sending her into the brick at her back. Shaw doubled over, the air having been knocked from her body. She felt hands tightly grasp the lapels of her overcoat as she was hauled back into a standing position. Sameen's eyes came into focus just in time to see the teenager winding his fist back for a second blow.

 

Still reeling, Shaw wasn't able to react quick enough to defend herself. As a result, the blow knocked her to the ground into a large metal trash bin. The ringing in her ears was deafening as she tried to right herself on the cold pavement, her face feeling the familiar sting of a decent right hook. Somehow she managed to raise herself to her hands and knees, the small pebbles on the ground digging into her palms. The attackers had other ideas, of course, and a kick to the stomach sent her rolling onto her back. The first man moved to stand over her, and Shaw made sure to focus on his face and commit the details to memory. If it turned out that her attacker was Patrick Simmons, as she'd suspected, he made a big mistake in not concealing his identity.

 

“Are we clear now, Shaw?” He asked as he knelt over her form.

 

Although she recognized the danger she was in, being alone in a dark alley with three men, one of whom carried a gun, she smiled. The action made her cheeks sore, and she could already tell where the bruises on her face would be. The young man knelt next to her as well, his eyebrows coming down low to complete the frown on his face.

 

“That all you got?” She groaned, “I've had better foreplay.”

 

The young man's face twisted at her comment, meanwhile the other man merely shook his head. The pair stood up, shadows stretching far down the otherwise deserted alley.

 

“Make sure she _really_ hears you, kid,” he man said to his young associate, though his eyes remained on Shaw's bloodied face. She gathered from his grim expression that the fun was not yet over. The man, whose identity she assumed was Simmons, began walking away with the gunman. The two left the opposite way they entered, leaving Shaw alone with the teenager.

 

Shaw rolled into her stomach and crawled towards the brick wall, her movements sluggish. Before she could move up into a standing position, the young man grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her back. His grip on her coat was strong and the left hook was harder than she'd expect, given the man's size. She had to wonder if she would have been able to defend herself had they not taken her by surprise. A few weeks ago, fighting with three large men in a dark alley would be her ideal Saturday evening, unfortunately she still felt weak, and utterly powerless against the onslaught of blows coming at her, eventually losing count on how many times he'd hit her.

 

The young man stood with his feet on either side of her body, holding her up by the fabric of her sweater. Her head was swimming, and lulled back as he lifted her a few inches off the ground. “You brought this on yourself, you know that don't you?” With considerable effort, Shaw raised her head enough to make eye contact with the young man. As with the other assailant, she tried to memorize the details of his face, however her vision was much too blurry to make out anything specific anymore. Shaw felt her face was slick was blood, and she struggled even to keep her eyes open, fighting to stay conscious. The man continued to speak: “Better listen to Simmons. I don't like hitting broads.”

 

Shaw couldn't really think of a response, so she did the next best thing and spat in her attacker's face. He recoiled as the blood splashed against his cheek, releasing his grip on Shaw's sweater. She crumpled down onto the pavement, her skull rattling with the impact. The man speaks again, although Shaw couldn't understand the words. As the sound of his shoes scraping against the ground filled the alley, another noise echoed loudly off the brick walls on each side, overpowering everything else. It was the unmistakable boom of a gun being fired, followed by the groaning of her attacker.

 

Sameen didn't flinch, as the sound of gunfire was very familiar to her. Even as the young man apparently had apparently finished delivering his “warning” and sprinted down the alley passed her, Shaw found herself lying motionless on the ground. She thought of the night she drank herself into a blackout, lying on the sidewalk staring up at the moon. It was overcast tonight, her friend in the sky nowhere to be seen. Shaw let out a ragged breath, feeling her eyes fluttering as the mist she'd created floated above her face.

 

As she continued to fade, she could hear someone walking towards her. At first she assumed it was her attackers, but the steps were different, lighter somehow. With darkness filling her vision, a familiar face appeared before her, and her bloodied lips turned up at the sight. The figure knelt at her side, slipping a hand under her neck to lift her head up. Before she finally surrendered, Sameen managed to utter a single word:

 

“Root...?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sameen Shaw, the queen of black-outs.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Anything Goes - Paul Whiteman


	14. Someone To Watch Over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw receives another warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much further to go now. Thanks for the continued support!

 

 

_January ??, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Sameen drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure of where she was. She tried to get a feel for her surroundings, or even conjure her last memories, but she was mostly unsuccessful. Had she been drinking again? It must have been bad considering the throbbing she felt in her face and abdomen. When she tried to open her eyes, she was met only with foggy surroundings, eventually she let herself fall back into darkness.

 

She awoke several times over an unknown period of time, first to her body being carried down a hall, then deposited on a soft couch. A woman spoke encouraging words to her, the voice was familiar and safe, staying with her until she passed out again.

 

On one instance, she was able to open her eyes and see her surroundings for the first time. The edges of her vision remained fuzzy, however she was able to make out a figure sitting at a large black desk. Brown hair cascaded down her back as she looked to be focused on sheets of paper. Shaw lifted her head slightly, blinking several times until the shapes became clearer. The woman was sitting at a piano, not a desk, light from the window behind the piano made the woman glow. Shaw could also see a man by the window, moving back and forth. She watched him for a few seconds before realizing that he was outside on the balcony. It looked like he was pushing the snow away. That was nice of him, she thought, laying her head back down and answering the call of sleep.

 

The next time waking up, she began to recall how she'd ended up here, wherever here was. She was walking down the street when men ambushed her, pulling her into the alley and beating her until she was rescued by someone. The small recollection was exhausting, and Sameen slipped back into sleep. At least she did not drink herself into _this_ mess.

 

Shaw woke again some time later to a cool cloth being pressed to her forehead, cheeks, and neck. As well as having an elevated temperature, her skin vibrated with sensations she recognized as pain from the countless blows she took last night.

 

Was it just last night? It felt longer.

 

Shaw tried to open her eyes, however the weight of her considerable headache kept her on the edge of consciousness. She let out a groan, while her care-giver shushed her, continuing to cool her aching skin with the cloth.

 

“You're all right, Sameen,” the woman said. “Go to sleep.”

 

Sameen's first instinct was to fight back, stay awake and get some answers. Instead she listened to the calming sound of a woman telling her that everything would be all right.

 

Eventually, Sameen managed to wake up without immediately feeling the pull of sleep, as if she had a good night's rest for the first time in years. The room was much clearer than the last time she woke up, at first seeming unfamiliar. Although... as she looked around, pieces of the room did tug at her memory. The large window and balcony, the bookcase and fireplace, but it was seeing the woman sitting at the piano that fully triggered her recollection. This was Root's place.

 

Shaw slowly sat up from the couch she'd been laying on, keeping her attention on where the woman still sat on the piano bench, writing on various pieces of paper. Then, a memory from the night she was attacked came back to her, the last she had before ending up here: Root's face appearing above her, lifting her from the ground and bringing her to safety.

 

“Root...” she groaned, her voice heavy. A hand came to her throat as she spoke, Root spun to face her, a surprised expression on her beautiful face. She stands from the bench, her wine-colored dress danced around her legs as she approached the couch, kneeling so that she and Shaw were eye level. “What happened?”

 

Root picked up a glass of water from the coffee table and handed it to Shaw. The detective drank slowly, the liquid soothed the feelings that her throat had been torn to bits. After she handed the glass back, she touched her fingertips to her cheeks, jaw, and nose, feeling the sting of bruises and the lines of cut skin. She sighed, then Root spoke:

 

“You were attacked three nights ago,” _three_ nights? “We were going to your office to review the coded messages you found in officer Simmons' locker. You went ahead and got pulled into the alley before I left The Fix.”

 

Shaw nodded. She recalled the strange messages that seemed to point to Simmons as the perpetrator in the murder of Zoe's girls. She also remembered the sound that ultimately scared her attacker away. “You shot the kid?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sameen adjusted her body so that she sat properly on the couch, leaning on the armrest. Root's answer was nonchalant, as if it should have been obvious. “I didn't know you had a gun.”

 

“I wouldn't be an effective investigator without one.”

 

Shaw laughed at that, though the motion caused pain to travel across her ribs. She groaned and held her arm across her body. “What else?”

 

Root then helped to fill in the blanks following the attack in the alley. She'd brought Shaw to her apartment with the help of Zoe's bodyguard, John. Shaw's temperature had spiked, Root even called doctor Tillman for medical expertise, and the fever caused her to drift in and out of consciousness for a few days. That explained Shaw's vague recollection of seeing Root working at her piano, or John cleaning the snow on the balcony. While the doctor looked after Shaw, Root sent John to the office to collect the evidence she'd gathered regarding the murders, then to her house for some clothing, seeing as she'd have to stay here until she was recovered. Shaw raised an eyebrow as she listened.

 

“You broke into my house? Again?”

 

Root gave her a look, “I used a key.”

 

“You have _**keys?**_ ”

 

“Sameen, _you_ have keys,” Root said, moving to sit in the chair across from the couch. “John and I just... borrowed them.”

 

Root went on to explain that she had returned to Shaw's office yesterday to get the detective's own gun, only to find that the space had been broken into and turned upside down. It was clear that her attackers came in search of the intelligence she had on their operation. Shaw remarked that her firearm was unloaded, but Root assured her that she would be able to provide ammunition so that the detective could properly defend herself as well. Shaw felt a pang of excitement as images of Root handling a weapon flooded her mind. Clearing her throat, she stowed such thoughts for a later time.

 

Root then updated her on the status of their plan. All the women were settled in a safe-house with twenty-four hour security, and employees in the club had been spreading the word about the move, Root using her own networking abilities to lead everyone to believe that at least one of the women had been sent here instead. Zoe had already received a few inquiries regarding potential appointments with the women at the new address, which meant their plan was working. Considering the “warning” she received the other night, Shaw's nagging worries had become serious concerns.

 

“We should change the plan. Maybe bring the police in,” she'd said.

 

Root frowned, “it's a little late for that, detective. The NYPD would have too many questions, Miss Morgan and I would probably end up in a cell right next to Simmons.”

 

“What if he catches you with your guard down? Or sends someone we don't recognize? He could break in here without warning to take what he's after, and then kill you.”

 

Leaning back in the chair, Root crossed her arms. “You seem very concerned about my safety.”

 

“That's not it.”

 

“The plan is solid, Sameen, I promise you,” she leaned forward, twisting the ring on her finger. “I'm checking in regularly with Miss Morgan, John has taken the apartment across the hall for the next few days. I have a gun, and I have you.”

 

Shaw rolled her eyes, standing from her position on the couch. She intended to pace around the apartment and consider their plan, unfortunately her legs gave out underneath her, having not been used in several days. Root was on her feet as Sameen lost her balance, moving to stop the detective's fall by catching her and supporting her weight. Shaw fell against Root's body, her own arms coming around the woman's waist for support, Root holding her tightly.

 

The pair stood in each others' arms for a beat, Shaw taking in the scent and warmth of Root before pulling back. Shaw looked up at her companion, the worry in her brown eyes was quite clearly genuine, it made her wonder what her own expression said in response. Their union continued, silence building to a point where it was palpable in the air. Speaking of, Shaw felt she _needed_ some air, after learning about everything that transpired over the last few days.

 

Her thoughts must have been clear to Root, who made a little more distance between them, though she still held Shaw's shoulders for support. She managed to untangle herself from Root and took a step away, however the other woman held onto her hand. “You can let go now.”

 

Root ignored her, eyes looking down at their joint hands. “I understand that you need some air, but why not take time to clean up first?” Root looked up, their eyes met, “I assume you remember where the powder room is.”

 

After considering, Shaw nodded her head slowly. Since she'd been sleeping in the same clothes for several days straight, she was in serious need of a bath. However, the idea of a bath brought forward the memory of her dreams that began with Root entering the bathroom and ended with the woman curling her fingers around Shaw's neck. The detective decided that perhaps a shower would be more appropriate. Maybe a cold one, too.

 

 

>

 

 

_January 28 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Once she'd showered and dressed in the clothes Root brought over from her apartment, Shaw felt more refreshed, even if she was still lightheaded. She wore dark gray slacks and a black long sleeved shirt, and used a dark elastic to tie her hair back. Even though Shaw struggled with alcohol abuse in the past, losing time by means of a black-out is always troublesome. Luckily she was looked after in this most recent case, but having even just a few days gone was unnerving. Sameen eventually exited the powder room, moving to find Root back at the piano in the sitting area.

 

Shaw stepped slowly to the side in order to watch her musician friend more clearly, Root's fingers moved across the ivory colored keys, creating a sound that was both soothing, and quite beautiful, while her eyes scanned the papers in front of her. Shaw enjoyed music as much as the average person, she figured, although the sounds, melodies, and words, never really spoke to her. Watching Root playing now was hypnotic, Shaw felt like she could stand there for hours and let the sound consume her. The effect was different than the stupor brought on by being too close to liquor, whether it was the sight, smell, or the taste. No, the sound of Root, and the mere sight of her filled Shaw with a strange tranquility, a feeling that was unfamiliar to her.

 

Root, finally noticing that Shaw had entered the room, turned her head. “You're looking better already,” she smiled, continuing to play. Soft fingers and beautiful hands pressing keys with precision and grace. How did she do that without looking?

 

“I feel better,” Shaw replied, though her words felt disjointed, her attention still on the music. Root stopped playing, and stood from the bench. Meanwhile Shaw felt released from the hold the music had on her. Shaw shook her head, watching as Root walked to the sitting area and picked up a small box, holding it out for Shaw as she returned to the piano.

 

“Would you carry this with you? It would put my mind at ease until you come back.”

 

Shaw took the box and flipped the lid back. Inside was her Smith & Wesson, already cleaned and oiled and, she assumed, loaded as well. Her mind flashed back to the last time she held the firearm, not the times she cleaned it in her office, rather when she'd been drinking one night and decided to wave the weapon around. She liked how the weight felt in her hand as she pulled the trigger. _Click, click, click,_ screamed the empty barrel. She'd point it at the fan spinning above her head, _click_ , the doorknob across the room, _click click,_ before finally turning the gun towards herself. The metal was cold, Shaw remembered how sharp it felt against her skin, or how loud the sound was when she pulled the trigger.

 

_Click, click, click._

 

“Shaw?”

 

Root's words pull her from the memory, she realizes that she's holding her weapon so tightly her fingers have turned white. “Hmm?”

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Handing the box back, Shaw slipped the weapon into the pocket of her trousers. With one curt nod to her companion, Shaw headed for the door, collecting her coat and hat before leaving the apartment.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

Although it was refreshing to be out in the afternoon air, Shaw was not particularly keen on walking to the diner. Maybe once the situation with Simmons and his crew was resolved, her regular routine would begin again, but for now her body was simply not functioning at one hundred percent. Neither was her mind, she discovered, as the passing of an unfamiliar man on the street caused her hand to fly inside her pocket and grip the handle of her gun.

 

When she realized that he was, in fact, not a danger to her, Sameen stopped and leaned against the brick of a building to catch her breath. She then signaled a taxi-cab at the end of the block to be driven the rest of the way, though her heartbeat didn't return to normal until she arrived.  Having checked the time before she left, Shaw knew it was coming close to three in the afternoon, and was hoping for a thin crowd in the diner, which was exactly the case.

 

Sighing, she kept her coat and hat with her as she walked in, squinting under the bright lights. The detective selected a booth this afternoon, rather than her preferred counter seat, if only to keep her more isolated from other guests. Shaw had removed her coat and placed it onto the seat next to her, but kept the cap on her head.

 

Sameen sat for only a few minutes before Sally the waitress approached with her pad and paper. “My goodness, Sam,” she'd said with a sigh, “now just where have you been?” Sally paused, tilting her head to peer at Shaw, “and what on Earth happened to your face?”

 

Shaw was aware of how _dreadful_ she must look, recalling how the waitress scrutinized her the last time. She reached up and touched the spots on her cheeks that were still swollen, also remembering the large dark spot under her left eye that seemed to span over the bridge of her nose as well. Though on their way to being healed, Sameen also had small cuts on her cheek and lip.

 

Since she didn't really want to tell her friend that men pulled her into an alley and beat her, Shaw simply shook her head and ordered some food. Thankful that most of her stomach issues were gone, she decided on a burger with a side of fries and a black coffee. Sally also offered her the newspaper, which Shaw declined, seeing as her intention was to clear her head, not fill it with the dreary daily news in the city.

 

Shaw enjoyed her meal in peace. While her mind still raced with everything that was going on, she was thankful to have food as a distraction. Root was safe for the moment at least, seeing as Simmons was unlikely to attack her during the day. Not only that, but John was still close by, and Root was, as Shaw recently learned, always armed.

 

It was when the detective was enjoying her third cup of coffee (with milk and sugar this time), did someone disturb her. Shaw looked over her cup to see a man dressed in a police uniform take the seat across from her. He removed his cap and placed it on the table next to the salt and pepper, before laying a brown folder flat in front of him. She peered at his face, his blue eyes hard and striking, familiar even in this vastly different light of the diner.

 

“Officer,” she nodded, glancing at the name tag that read **P. Simmons**. The gun in her pocket suddenly felt heavy.

 

“You're a hard woman to find,” he replied. His voice just as gravely as in her memory.

 

“What do you want?” Shaw glanced around, seeing if she could spot any of his other friends.

 

“I think you have something of mine. And I want it back.”

 

Assuming he was referring to the newspaper she had taken from his locker, she shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “Didn't find it when your boys trashed my office? How is the kid by the way? You know, the one you have doin' all the hard work.”

 

Simmons shut his eyes for a moment, as if to suppress any outburst at her response. “Let me make this real simple for you,” he leaned on the counter. “I wasn't expecting much from a woman detective who has a problem with the sauce,” Shaw's jaw clenched as he continued. “When Mikey came back to us with a bullet in his shoulder, I figured we needed to take you seriously.”

 

He opened the folder in front of him. At a glance she could see what looked like a military file, her portrait attached to the top with a paperclip. He also had several other photographs that he began to lay out in front of her.

 

“See, Sameen, we know where you live,” he pointed to a photograph of her apartment building, “where you work,” then to one of her office before gesturing with his hand, “and of course, where you like to eat.”

 

“And?”

 

“We also know who you like to spend your time with. The pretty blonde waitress, for example. Officer Carter, or even...” he paused, placing another photograph in front of her. “Your floozie friend.”

 

Shaw peered down, at first unsure of what she was looking at. It took her a moment to realize that it was a photograph of her and Root. It seemed to be taken from outside her office building on the night of a snowstorm and depicted her in something of a compromising position. She recalled standing at the window with Root before, well...

 

“You're an embarrassment to your country,” Simmons continued. “Bad enough they allow broads to fight, let alone—”

 

“Look,” she placed her cup down with enough force to stop his words, “as interesting as this is, is there a point you're trying to make, or can I order a pie and leave?”

 

Simmons began to collect his papers, placing them back into the folder. “I'm only gonna say this one more time: try and stop us again, and we'll kill you.”

 

Shaw rolled her eyes, “I'm shaking.”

 

Picking up his hat, Simmons stood from the booth, moving to lean down over Shaw. “Not just you, _detective._ We'll follow your waitress home and cut her throat in the driveway. Then we'll send Carter to a drug bust where a bullet will be waiting with her name on it. And your hooker? We'll have our fun with her and dump her body in the river.”

 

Shaw's expression hardened as he leaned away from her, placing his cap on his head and adjusting his coat.

 

“Still shaking, detective?”

 

No response came to mind, she simply watched as he walked away, making a point to nod to Sally before exiting the diner. Shaw let out a breath, staring into her coffee cup, wondering why she didn't just shoot him as soon as he sat down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece Root is playing on the piano is the same as the title song, Someone to Watch Over Me, and it's one of my favorites!


	15. Feudin' and Fightin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and Root put their plan into motion.

 

 

_January 28 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

Shaw remained in the booth for quite some time after Simmons left her with another threat, one that she was taking a little more seriously. It was one thing to threaten her own life, another to go after two innocent bystanders. And Root.

 

Her first instinct was to immediately return to Root's apartment. She had to push against it, as that might have been exactly was Simmons wanted: for Shaw to lead him and his crew to where she'd been hiding out. What Simmons _didn't_ know is that was essentially their plan anyway. So she waited in the diner, sipping coffee until the sun made it's way down the horizon. When the sky had sufficiently darkened, she placed a few bills on the counter for her earlier meal and slid from the booth. As she buttoned her heavy coat, the waitress approached her.

 

“Sam honey,” she'd said with her usual southern accent, “there's a telephone call for you at the counter.”

 

“From who?”

 

Sally shrugged, saying that she wasn't the one to answer, before walking away to attend to a customer. Shaw approached the counter and one of the staff members pointed to the telephone laying just beside the cash register. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear, frowning upon hearing the dial tone.

 

Turning back, Shaw placed the handset back on the cradle. “The line was dead,” she said to the man, who shrugged.

 

“She must have hung up.”

 

Shaw sighed, “she give a name?”

 

The man took a moment to think about it, meanwhile Shaw's foot began to tap. Eventually, he nodded, “Ruth.”

 

“Ruth?”

 

“Think so, yeah.”

 

“You _think_ so?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Shaw headed towards the door under the assumption that _Root_ had called. While the detective wasn't sure why Root was trying to reach her, something told her it wasn't good. Between the threats Simmons delivered, and the fact that the telephone line was dead before she had the chance to answer, it was with a quickened pace that Shaw finally left the diner.

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

One thing Sameen dreaded about going through any kind of withdrawal was the unexpected ways it would disturb her body and it's regular rhythm. She still fought against waves of nausea, dizziness, as well as fast changes in her body temperature, but the most difficult aspect to contain was the increase in her paranoid thinking. From thinking that every man on the corner intended to attack her, to the constant feeling of being watched, Shaw was having a hard time getting her mind under control, especially now.

 

She walked only a few blocks in the direction of Root's building before she rounded a corner and dashed into a nearby door frame, certain that a man had been following her. Desperate to get away, while preserving the safety of Root's location, Shaw shed her coat and hat, tossing them into a trash bin as she started back on the sidewalk. Hoping that a change in appearance would confuse anyone following her, Sameen also pulled her hair free of it's band, shaking it loose.

 

The cold immediately hit her, the January wind easily able to pierce the long sleeved shirt she was wearing. Without her hat and coat, the air made it's way into her bones, her body drawing inward to try and preserve any heat. To make matters worse, snow was falling from the sky in thin flakes, melting into water as soon as they landed on her clothing. Sameen walked across the street, getting the attention of a taxi-cab who, thankfully, stopped on the corner to receive her. Still cautious about being followed, she directed the driver to leave her several streets over from Root's, deciding to walk the rest of the way.

 

Well, _walk_ may have been inaccurate, and the detective ended up jogging the remaining distance.

 

Her lungs burned with exertion as she ascended the stairs, finally reaching the correct floor. Sameen stopped in front of Root's door and hit the wood with her fist. The cold clung to her clothing, made her fingers numb, and her face feel stiff. She felt a tightness in her lungs as her noise went unanswered, both from inhaling frigid air and the panic making it's way into her chest. She banged on the door again.

 

“Root!” She called out, “open the door!”

 

Finally she heard the sound of the sliding chain on the other side of the door, then opening to reveal her companion. She sighed, as Root furrowed her brow, looking to a spot behind the detective. Turning, Shaw noticed that John had apparently heard the commotion and opened his own door.

 

“It's all right,” Root said to him. She stepped aside and gestured for Shaw to enter. “What's wrong?”

 

As Shaw walked into Root's warm apartment, she held her arms across her body, rubbing her biceps in an attempt to create some warmth. “I went to the diner and S-Simmons...” she stammered, her teeth beginning to chatter. She shook out her head, frustrated at her body, “he threatened to k-kill you.”

 

“Slow down, detective,” Root said, reaching out to rub Shaw's shoulders. “You're turning blue. Come over here.” She led Shaw towards the fireplace against the wall where the flames were crackling loudly behind a metal grate. “Take off your clothes.”

 

Shaw paused, “w-what?”

 

She turned to see Root standing behind her, the throw blanket from the couch in her hands. “Your clothes are wet,” Shaw blinked, “you're going to get sick if you keep them on. What happened to your coat?”

 

Grasping the hem of her shirt, Shaw lifted the fabric over her head, hissing as the wet shirt stung her skin. “I got rid of it,” she'd said, passing the garment to Root before unbuckling her trousers and slipping them from her legs. In her underclothes now, Shaw shivered, feeling goose flesh all around her body. Root offered her the throw in exchange for her trousers, her gaze lingering on Shaw's exposed skin.

 

“Eyes up,” Shaw ordered, draping the blanket over her shoulders.

 

Root met her gaze, a playful look on her face. “It's not like I haven't seen it all before,” Shaw groaned as the woman continued. “Sit here by the fire and get warm. I'll be right back.”

 

She did as Root asked, and sat down on the rug by the fire, her legs crossed. She watched the embers dancing among the bits of wood, trying to will the heat to consume her body. A few minutes later, Root returned with a thicker blanket, laying it across Shaw's shoulders as she sat next to her, legs tucked underneath her. Root smoothed the fabric of her dress and handed a mug to Shaw. It looked to be coffee at first, but when Shaw brought the cup to her nose, the scent of cocoa wafted up. She considered asking if Root had anything stronger on hand, knowing that alcohol would certainly warm her insides. Maybe some of that brandy Shaw tasted on her tongue the first time they kissed. The detective continue to shiver at the thought, the mug shaking in her grasp.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Root said after a beat. Shaw detailed her confrontation with Simmons at the diner, how he had quite the file on her, including a photograph from their time in the office last week. Shaw also explained the feelings of being watched as she left the diner, which led to her tossing articles of her clothing into the trash in the hopes of avoiding detection.

 

“You telephoned the diner,” Shaw continued, her voice now steady. “But you weren't there when I answered, so I came back.”

 

“I didn't mean to frighten you. I wanted to know that you were all right.”

 

“I wasn't afraid.”

 

From her peripheral vision, Shaw could see Root nodding. “Then, why the rush to get here so quickly?”

 

Shaw placed her cocoa down on the floor, out of the way. She sighed, eyes still on the fire. “I don't know.”

 

“Careful, defective,” Root chuckled, “I might think you're stuck on me.”

 

Shaw scoffed at that, while a shiver danced up her spine. “Unlikely.”

 

“I wouldn't think any less of you,” Shaw could see the smile tugging at Root's lips. “I've been told I'm quite irresistible.”

 

Shaw shook her head, drawing the blankets closer to her body, “you're something, all right.”

 

Root didn't reply, and Shaw didn't say anything more. They sat together for a moment before Shaw felt a shift in the air. She looked to her companion, seeing Root's eyes were no longer on the fire. In the moment, Shaw couldn't help thinking about how Root seemed to glow in the golden light. It occurred to her that no matter the environment, Root's beauty was remarkable. Whether in the air of fresh snow fall, a street lamp in the dead of night, or a warm fire, she was simply intoxicating.

 

Shaw felt a pull towards Root. Though resistant at first, Shaw found herself giving in more and more, from their first night together, to their dance in The Fix, to here and now, sitting together. Sameen shifts closer, the heavy blanket beginning to slip from her shoulder. She reaches to brush hair from Root's face, her hand lingering. Root's skin is warm, soft in comparison to Shaw's cold fingers.

 

The high-pitched sound of Root's telephone rang loudly in the otherwise quiet space. Root pulled away, mumbling an apology before standing and walking to answer it. While she was disappointed, Shaw recognized that their plan to catch the criminals was still very much in motion, and in order for it to succeed, Root needed to be accessible.  She sat alone for a few minutes while Root attended to the telephone, well on her way to reaching her normal temperature. She turned to face her musician friend when she heard soft footsteps returning.

 

“What's the news?”

 

“That was Miss Morgan. Some gentlemen have been making inquires about our services, since all of our regular girls have moved,” she paused, crossing her arms. “It looks like Samantha Groves has a client this evening.”

 

Shaw's eyes darkened. “Tonight? Already? Is it...?”

 

Root nodded, “Zoe confirmed his identity.”

 

Nodding, Shaw rubbed her knuckles, eager to put an end to this nightmare. She looked to Root, “it's showtime.”

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

As Root now prepared for her guest, she shared with Shaw her plans for when Simmons arrived for his _appointment_ with Samantha Groves. Shaw was to wait across the hall in John's apartment for the duration of the meeting, meanwhile John would be outside on the street corner to watch for any men approaching and entering the building. Armed with nothing but his side-arm, and a pocket full of dimes, John would use the payphone across the street to stay in contact with Shaw, that way he could alert her of any suspicious activity, while looking inconspicuous himself. John would also have a decent view of Root's window, and could notify Shaw if she appears to be in any danger.

 

Once her client arrived, Root would restrain him before signaling John from her balcony, who would relay the message to Shaw across the hall. The detective could then arrest Simmons and take him into police custody, presenting all the evidence that they've gathered on his group of policemen turned criminals. While Sameen agreed that the plan was apt, she a few concerns.

 

“Shouldn't I be in here with you instead of in the other apartment?” Shaw said as she paced the length of Root's bedroom. The woman herself was sitting at the vanity applying the signature red color to her lips. Meanwhile Shaw had dressed in a dark blue sweater and black slacks that had been brought from her own residence. Root had also given her a black tie to use on her hair.

 

Root rubbed her lips together, making a small _pop_ as she examined her work in the mirror. “He will be easier to subdue if he's relaxed and comfortable.”

 

Sameen crossed her arms, “I don't know...”

 

Root looked at Shaw in the mirror. “Trust me.”

 

Shaw watched as Root took some sort of circular pad and dabbed it on her face. “It's _him_ I don't trust.” Root then began rubbing the pad down the length of her neck, Shaw couldn't tear her eyes away. The detective saw this as an opportunity to ask Root something that she'd been curious about: “Mind if I ask you something?”

 

“Of course.”

 

In her hand Root now held what looked like a pencil. She leaned close to the mirror and used it to outline her eyes one at a time. “What is so special about the jewelry Simmons is after?”

 

Root considered for a moment before she spoke: “I'm afraid I can't give you a satisfactory answer.”

 

“I'd take _any_ answer,” Shaw walked towards the bedroom window, peering behind the sheer curtain. “The notes I found in Simmons' locker puts a heavy price on the set, you know.”

 

“Miss Morgan likes having the best, from the people she employees to what they're wearing when representing her.” Shaw nods as Root stands from the vanity, apparently satisfied with her appearance. “She acquired the set some time ago, each of us were given a gem based upon our personality, or so we were told. If I'm speaking freely, I think they are just a way for Zoe to mark us as her property.”

 

Shaw raised her eyebrows, “harsh.”

 

“We live in a harsh world, Sameen.”

 

Nodding, Shaw then wanted to ask why Zoe had decided to give Root the piece that always seemed to be a different color. Before she had the chance, the telephone rang, and Root walked passed Shaw and into the sitting room to answer. Shaw stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and followed, gripping the handle of her firearm. She approached Root just as she placed the receiver down on the cradle. John reported two men outside the building, one entered and the second remained outside.

 

“Time to go,” Root said, gesturing towards the door.

 

Shaw reached for the brass handle, turning back to face Root. Her eyes were downcast, still on the telephone stand.

 

“Would you at least be careful?” Shaw turned the knob and pulled the heavy door open, and Root looked up and winked at the detective, her smile lighting her face. The apprehension that Shaw may have noticed a moment ago was gone, as if it had never been there to begin with. Shaw stepped into the hallway, inhaled deeply, then walked across the hall into John's apartment.

 

 

>

 

 

“You sure you can't see anything?”

 

Shaw stood by the door, the telephone's curly cord stretched to it's limit, while she held a a glass cup against the wood. Over an hour had passed and all she heard were footsteps passing, and what she assumed was Root greeting her guest.

 

“ _A second person is now waiting outside the building,_ ” John replied. He remained on the payphone across the street.

 

“And Root?”

 

“ _The lights are still on._ ” Shaw sighed. While she knew that John didn't exactly have a clear line of sight into Root's apartment, the lack of information was frustrating. “ _Wait._ ”

 

At the same time, Sameen heard what could have been glass breaking. She strained to hear anything more, her heart beginning to race, “what just happened?”

 

“ _I'm not sure. It's darker now._ ”

 

Shaw then heard a quiet thud, followed by a man speaking loudly. She decided that she'd given Root enough time to handle the situation and couldn't wait any longer. Shaw dropped the phone, and the glass she was using to listen, then opened the door and ran across the hall. She turned the doorknob, to her dismay it had been locked from the inside. Her mind briefly flashes back to the dream she had after Wendy McNally was killed; racing down a hallway, doors either locked or disappearing, unable to respond to the cries for help.

 

“Damn it, Root,” she'd said, taking a step back. Shaw kicked under the doorknob as hard as she could, the wooden door flying open, splintering from where she'd hit. Now that there was no walls blocking the noise, she could hear the rustling of a struggle, as well as piano keys being pressed, which struck her as a little odd.

 

Shaw quickly moved into the sitting room to find Simmons with his hands around Root's throat, leaning over her. The two fought against the piano, explaining the sound of keys being unintentionally pressed. On the floor, Shaw could see the glass remains of a lamp, and given that Simmons had several bloody marks on his forehead, she could assume that he'd been struck with it. Root's gun had been discarded on the floor as well. Shaw couldn't tell if her friend had been injured, as her brown hair was tousled across her face in their struggle.

 

“Hands off her, punk,” Shaw said as she pulled the Smith & Wesson from her trouser pocket, pointing it forward. The gun felt heavier than usual.

 

Simmons turned, noticing her for the first time, his eyes turning positively vicious. “Always tryin'a be the hero, huh?”

 

Releasing his grip on Root's neck, Simmons then threw his hand across her face, sending her tumbling to the carpet below. Shaw's reflexes kicked in and she squeezed the trigger of her weapon, the sound bouncing in the small space. The bullet skimmed his shoulder before shattering the glass door behind them, causing Simmons to stumble back. Shaw cursed her inaccuracy for a moment, then charged at the man, pushing him onto the balcony.

 

She felt his body come to a stop as it hit the metal railing, the night air chilling like a slap in the face. Unfortunately, Simmons recovered quite quickly, and used the advantage of his height and size to step around Shaw and wrap his arm around her neck.  When Shaw tried to utilize the firearm she had, Simmons tightly grabbed her wrist, banging it against the banister until she dropped her gun.  The metal skittered on the balcony landing, somehow not falling onto the ground below. Sameen struggled against her much larger opponent as he now pushed her close to the railing, apparently intending to throw her off. She jabbed an elbow into his abdomen before being restrained by Simmons' other hand, her head being forced over the edge. The wind pushed the loose strands of Shaw's hair left and right as she tried to use the strength in her legs to resist. Meanwhile her free hand grasped the cold metal barrier like a vice. Simmons clearly had an advantage, despite being shot in the arm, and eventually Shaw's torso had begun to bend over the railing. It was in this moment that Shaw had a better understanding of Root's fear of heights.

 

“It's a long way down, detective,” Simmons grunted in her ear with a chuckle.

 

If falling over Root's balcony was her fate, she certainly wasn't going to do it alone. Shaw hooked her foot behind Simmons' ankle in an attempt to knock him off balance. It seemed to be working, she could feel his body stumble forward, the grip on her neck a little less firm. Before she could continue her efforts to turn the fight around, she heard a gunshot. Simmons grip had significantly loosened, his body beginning to lean over her heavily. At first she thought he may have been shot dead, however he continued to groan behind her.

 

But then his weight continued to bear down upon her, whether intentional or not the two were slipping off the edge. It happened in an instant, their combined bodies spilling over the railing, Shaw's hand becoming too twisted to hold on any longer. She flailed with her assailant into the night air, tightly shutting her eyes and bracing for the inevitable impact—

 

Instead she felt her forearm grabbed and held by something. Her body dangled over the railing, watching as Simmons crumpled onto the ground below. Shaw let out a breath, mist fogging her vision, as she tried to understand what happened.

 

“Sameen...!” Root called from above. Shaw's body dropped several inches, and the detective gasped before she looking up at her apparent savior. Root was leaning over the ledge of the balcony, holding onto her arm, her grip slipping. “You can pull yourself up anytime!”

 

Shaw raised her left arm with a groan, gripping the metal railing. More stable now, she raised herself high enough to reach the bar with her right hand as well. Root helped pull her body up, until the detective was safely on the balcony landing.  Sameen sighed heavily, looking to Root. She could see now that her friend had a few small cuts on her face, perhaps from the glass littering her floor. Root brushed some hair behind her ear, sighing as well.

 

“This isn't quite how I expected tonight to end,” Root said with a small smile. As if she hadn't just shot a man and watched him fall off her balcony.

 

“Yeah,” Shaw stepped to the edge, peering over the railing. Her blood ran cold as she looked onto the street below. “Uhh, Root?”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

Shaw looked to her, brow furrowed in disbelief. “Simmons is gone.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Feudin' And Fightin' - Dorothy Shay


	16. It Can't be Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's case is closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming on this journey with me! Your support is greatly appreciated as always. I hope to be back soon with something new in a present-day story! (or maybe space :-))
> 
> Check out the end for a few notes on the story.

 

 

Upon realizing that Simmons was no longer on the ground where they'd left him, Shaw immediately found her Smith & Wesson, intending to investigate for herself. Before she could leave Root's apartment, John entered with his own weapon in hand. During the commotion upstairs, one of the men outside had actually entered the building, and John took it upon himself to follow the man inside and subdue him before he became a threat. The man was identified as detective James Stills, and was currently restrained and blindfolded in John's own apartment.

 

Shaw suggested they _now_ get the police involved, seeing as they had one detective in custody, and another apparently on the loose after being shot and falling several stories. To her surprise, Root agreed, saying that they could easily report this in a way that wouldn't elicit much suspicion. Like in the case of Wendy McNally, Shaw could have been in the area visiting her friend from Europe, John Reese, when she heard the glass breaking from the other room. She responds to the noise, seeing a man attacking a woman, and acts accordingly. Root, or in this case, Samantha Groves, is presented as working in the same profession as both Hanna Frey and Wendy McNally, allowing the police to draw the connection between the crimes. Ms Groves is well off, and in possession of a very rare piece of jewelry, one which this group of corrupt police officers has been searching for.

 

In this situation, Root would be painted as the victim, meanwhile the evidence they'd gathered on the criminals could be copied, and delivered to detective Carter anonymously. The fact that both Simmons and Stills had “appointments” with one, or all of the women before they were attacked should be enough to have them arrested and charged, assuming that Simmons could be located, that is.

 

While they waited for the uniformed police officers to arrive and take everyone's statement about the incident, Shaw took the time to make sure Root hadn't suffered any injuries at Simmons' hand. Aside from a few small cuts on her face, some purple bruising around her neck, she was otherwise in fair condition. Shaw left the sitting room to retrieve a towel, when she returned Root was on the piano bench holding a small tumbler filled with an amber liquid. Shaw stopped for just a moment, steeled herself, and approached.

 

“Here,” Shaw said, holding the towel ahead. Root placed her glass on the piano lid, and took the cloth from the detective, dabbing the places where she was cut.

 

“Thank you,” Root replied. John remained on the balcony, watching for the eventual arrival of the police. Meanwhile the two women sat in silence for several minutes before Root spoke again. “I apologize for how things escalated.”

 

Shaw merely shrugged, taking a seat next to her on the bench. “How did that happen anyway?”

 

Root sighed behind the cloth, “I had my own agenda tonight, Sameen. My intention was to make Simmons to suffer before we got the police involved.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“We shared a drink when he arrived. Red wine for me, and a... cocktail for him.”

 

“Poison?”

 

“Something like that. Only, he recognized the odor, and I had to improvise.”

 

“By hitting him with the lamp?” Shaw looked to her companion, who simply shrugged and nodded. Root seemed defeated, somber in a way. “Where did the poison come from?”

 

Root's lips turned up in a small smile, part of her regular self returning, “we all have our secrets, detective.”

 

John entered the sitting room from the balcony, “NYPD is here.”

 

 

>

 

 

Once the police were finished interviewing everyone, marking various points of interest in the apartment, and took detailed recordings of the overall state of the area, Shaw, Root, and John were free to go.

 

Shaw would return to her office, while Root and her bodyguard would likely head to Zoe for safety purposes. The police took Stills into custody before continuing their investigation of the area, moving out onto the sidewalk. Officers blocked access to the street and tried to look for any clues that could lead them to Simmons, such as tire tracks, foot prints, or even blood. Shaw thanked the police for their continuing service, said her goodbyes to Root, and allowed one of the officers to drive her home.

 

Knowing full well that Simmons had the address of both her residence, and her office, Shaw decided instead to take a room at the hotel a few blocks away from where she lived. She figured that it would be safer while the police worked to locate Simmons.

 

Arriving with only the clothes on her back and the cash in her pocket, Sameen made plans to visit her home in the morning to bring some of the essentials, seeing as she may be here for several days before able to safely return home.

 

Sameen expected sleep to come to her after she'd settled in the hotel bed. Her room was small, containing one single sized bed, a working desk, and reading chair. When she closed her eyes she could see Simmons strangling Root over her piano. Trying to shake the image from her mind didn't help, only altered what she thought of. Instead she kept seeing him attacking other women, Hanna, Wendy, even Sally. Who's to say he wont continue his pattern of attacking and robbing women, even in the state that he escaped in?

 

Sameen was restless, spending hours shifting, turning, unable to find a way to relax. Eventually the sun began to rise, warm light streaming into her room from the window. Sighing, Shaw got up from the bed and entered the small bathroom, washing her face with cold water before deciding that she wanted to head downstairs. Dressing in the same trousers and sweater from yesterday, Sameen left the hotel room and walked down to the lobby, where a booth was set up for guests to use the telephone.

 

She inserted a dime into the payphone, then dialed Joss Carter's number.

 

“ _Carter_ ,” the policewoman's voice answered after three tones.

 

“It's me,” Sameen replied. “What's the news on Simmons?”

 

“ _So far we have two men in custody, James Stills and a Michael Laskey,_ ” Shaw nodded, listening. “ _Uniforms are still trying to locate Simmons._ ”

 

“And the stolen items?”

 

“ _We're sending some available officers to check out the addresses of the perpetrators. I'm also bringing in your two friends for additional questioning._ ”

 

Shaw nodded, thumbing the edge of the dime in her hand. “You think they know something?”

 

Carter paused for a moment. “ _I just want to make sure we have all the information. We can't let him slip away._ ”

 

“I agree. Keep me updated?”

 

Joss agreed to telephone Shaw again once she gathered more information for this case. The detective gave the name and address of the hotel she was staying at, telling her friend to leave a message at the desk whenever possible. She wondered if she would be hearing from Root at some point too.

 

 

 

>

 

 

_February 10 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

In the days that followed, when January said goodbye, Sameen finally returned to the routine kept before this situation with Hanna, Simmons, and Root. She's wake up in the hotel bed, eat breakfast at the diner, exercise, and review potential case files for when she was back at her office.

 

Simmons was still at large, according to Carter. Shaw couldn't understand how he managed to disappear so quickly that night. Unfortunately for him, the NYPD had his number, even going as far as to print his portrait on the back of a few publications, including the New York Inquisitor. Although, the idea of him being out there, knowing Shaw's address and patterns, made her a little more cautious. She'd been sleeping with her Smith & Wesson under her pillow. She hoped that Root was doing the same.

 

Speaking of, she hadn't seen or heard from Root at all since the arrest. Shaw thought that the woman was merely avoiding her so as not to arouse any suspicion, but the days carried on with complete radio silence. After spending the last month with the musician, especially when at her lowest, Root had become part of the routine without Shaw even realizing it.

 

Against her better judgment, Shaw had even tried to contact Zoe Morgan, but the number she had was no longer connected. She walked passed the club one afternoon in the hopes of meeting in person, only to find the building boarded up and deserted. Had it all been a dream? Hanna, Root, Zoe, everything? Maybe Shaw was still in detox, and everything up until now was just her mind playing a strange game. One final gift from the alcohol that poisoned her system.

 

If that were true, perhaps she was no longer in a hospital bed, but in the psychotic wing.

 

One evening, after enjoying a meal from a bodega across the street, she returned to the hotel to find Officer Carter waiting for her. Surprised, she approached her friend. “What's the news?”

 

“We found Simmons,” the policewoman said. “Figured you'd want to ride along and see it for yourself.”

 

With no immediate need to return to her hotel room, Shaw followed Carter out into the parking lot where they entered her police cruiser together. The streets had been clearing up quite well, the city not having a large snowfall for several weeks now. She found herself fidgeting in the car, tapping her foot, checking to make sure her gun was still in her pocket.

 

It wasn't until Carter turned towards the bridge into Queens that Shaw broke the silence in the vehicle. “Has the arrest already been made?”

 

“No.”

 

“ _No_?” Shaw turned to her friend, “why the hell not?”

 

“You'll see when we get there,” while Sameen didn't appreciate the cryptic tones to Carter's words, having spent so much time with Root, it was something she had become quite used to. “We were able to recover nearly every piece of jewelry stolen by their group of thieves. Gold earrings, a string of pearls, and a ring with a sapphire stone were among them. They kept everything under the watch of a woman named Diane Henson, until they were able to pawn them off.”

 

Shaw blinked, thinking she heard incorrectly, but Carter went on to explain that Diane Henson seemed to be a crucial part of their operation. In hiring the detective services of one Sameen Shaw, Diane could effectively nudge the investigation in the _opposite_ direction of where the crimes were taking place, as well as provide updates to her criminal colleagues as to what information Shaw or the police may have. Shaw shook her head as she listened. If Root hadn't come to her with Hanna's case, they may never have ended up following the right clues. Simmons would have murdered a hundred women in order to find all the pieces of Zoe's expensive set of rings.

 

“Miss Henson also served as their record keeper,” Joss continued. “They were good, I'll give 'em that. Though having a secretary may not have been the smartest move. Using what we found in her home, and all the statements we gathered, there's a solid case against the remaining members of the group.”

 

Eventually Carter pulled up to a small home that was already being attended to by two police cars. Yellow tape was spread across the perimeter, and a couple of uniformed officers were fielding inquiries from nearby civilians. Officer Carter flashed her police badge, and the pair were allowed to enter the barrier. Had Simmons barricaded himself inside? If that were the case, the NYPD response seemed passive. They must know how dangerous he is.

 

As they approached the front door, Sameen took the Smith & Wesson from her pocket. Joss noticed, then responded by shaking her head. “You wont need that.”

 

Shaw wanted to ask why not, instead her colleague opened the front door and gestured for her to enter. Inside were more police officers going about their business, some writing things down in their notebook, others taking measurements or photographs. A few were even attempting to collect finger prints or blood samples.

 

Returning the weapon to her pocket, Shaw turned to Carter as they walked further into the home. “What's going on? I thought you said Simmons was here?”

 

“He is. Come this way,” Joss said, leading the detective into the dining room. A large set of french doors provided enough light for the entire room. When the pair entered, they were at the head of a long brown table, with chairs on either side. On the far end of the table were several items: a knife, a piece of cloth, a pair of scissors, a hammer, and what looked like a small gas can. Also at the opposite end, Shaw noticed that the chair was occupied by someone who faced the window, slouched and motionless. Sameen furrowed her brow, approaching with cautious steps.

 

It seemed like their perpetrator was indeed sitting in the chair. Something about the scene caused a chill to enter her body, the feeling of being squeezed by an unknown force made her take slow steps until she stood in front of the person. As she took in the sight in front of her, one thing became very clear: Simmons was dead.

 

Of course, Sameen was not unaccustomed to seeing death by various means. Serving in Europe as both a soldier and, on occasion, a field medic, she had seen the many ways in which someones life can end. Some with gore, others with peace.

 

This didn't appear to be a peaceful end. Not that he deserved such a thing.

 

Simmons was slouched in the dining chair, his hands and feet both tied down with rope. On his face were several cuts and scratches, some likely from injuries sustained the night he attacked, but others seemed more fresh. In a way, the marks seemed specific, too. In addition to the cuts, Sameen determined that some of the wounds were small burns, perhaps from a cigar or something similar in shape. Finally, a single gunshot wound to the head, obviously the cause of death.

 

Dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt, Shaw could clearly see where he'd been shot the other night. One graze on his right shoulder, and a larger entry wound on his left. When she leaned in to examine them more closely, she was overwhelmed by an odor of gasoline. She made a face as she turned back.

 

“Someone really had their fun with him,” Carter supplied. “Crime scene investigators determined that whoever did this used the gasoline on the open wounds.”

 

Shaw continued to survey the body, she noticed what was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of his state: one of Simmons fingers had been cut off. She couldn't be certain, however some of the bones in the hands appeared to be broken as well. Perhaps that's where the hammer came into play. She turned to Carter: “Who did this?”

 

The policewoman shook her head. “We don't have a suspect. No one in the area reported seeing or hearing anything unusual, and we're still in the process of gathering physical evidence,” Shaw crossed her arms, looking again at the dead man. “We'll cast a wide net to try and find the guy who did this. I'll be looking over the information on the women he went after, chances are the killer would be a spouse or relative of Simmons' victims.”

 

As far as she knew, neither Hanna Frey nor Wendy McNally were married. Then again, she couldn't really claim to know anything about the women. Early in her investigation, Shaw had nagging feelings of being kept in the dark by Zoe and her associates. Her intuition was then pushed aside as she struggled with alcohol, forcing her lean on Root and eventually begin to trust her. She sighed, could that have been the plan from the beginning?

 

“Let's get out of here.”

 

 

>

 

 

_February 12 th, 1947_

_NYC_

 

 

Since her life was no longer in serious danger, Sameen finally left her room at the hotel in favor of returning to her own apartment and office. After she cleaned her apartment, recalling how it had been ransacked by Simmons' crew during their investigation, she then took time to file the information she had gathered last month on Zoe Morgan and her associates. Once all the documents, maps, and notes were stored safely in the file cabinet in her office, Sameen felt like she could really breathe for the first time in a long time.

 

One evening, Sameen finds herself relaxing in her office, coming to terms with the fact that she may never see or hear from Root, Zoe, or anyone connected to Hanna ever again. She enjoyed a cigarette and read the paper, while snow lightly fell from the gray sky, the sun long since descended on the horizon. Her feet rested on the corner of her desk, the tie she wore was loosened, and her mind surprisingly content.

 

Her eyes scanned the pages of the _Inquisitor_ , reading the details on the police officers that had been arrested in connection with several murders throughout the city. She couldn't help a small smirk at the photographs of the men who threatened and beat her, awaiting their turn in the chair. Part of her thought they deserved a fate closer to their partner Simmons, for all the suffering they caused those women.

 

Turning the page of the newspaper, Shaw then heard a knock at the office door. Without looking up, she called out: “We're closed.”

 

She heard the door open, light from the hallway streaming into the otherwise dim space. “You can't make a living if you keep turning clients away, detective.”

 

Shaw folded the newspaper, the familiar voice hitting her like a shock of electricity. Sure enough, Root was walking, no, _sauntering_ , into her office, her silhouette glowing with the help of the lamps behind her. Dark heels clicked on the wooden floor, as they did the first time she walked in here all those weeks ago. Root continued to wear a long brown coat, the dress underneath appeared to be navy blue, with white lining the hem. Her brown hair was loosely curled, touching her shoulders gently.

 

Shaw stands up, “what do you want?”

 

Root didn't answer. Instead she turned to push the door shut, then walked the length of the office. She plucked two empty glasses from the stand, then sat in the chair across Shaw. The tumblers clinked together as Root placed them down on the desk, Shaw watched her closely, eyes widening as the musician reached into her coat pocket and drew a metal flask. The same one she'd seen the first time they spent the night together.

 

“I have a confession, detective,” Root finally said, twisting the lid from the flask and pouring one finger of liquor in both cups. The scent hit Shaw immediately. she felt the hair behind her neck stand up, her palms becoming warm.

 

“This isn't a church,” Shaw remained standing as she spoke. Root smiled, capping her flask and returning it to her pocket.

 

“I'm afraid I've been dishonest with you,” Root curled her fingers around the glass, bringing it to her red painted lips. She only took a small drink, Shaw watching her throat clench as she swallowed. “I would like to rectify that, if you'd let me.”

 

Root gestured to the seat across from her, the ring on her finger catching the light from the lamp on Shaw's desk. If the detective wasn't so fixated on glaring at the other woman, projecting her frustration at her very _being_ , she may have noticed that Root was not wearing the same ring as before.

 

Shaw cleared her throat, thinking instead of how it might feel to wrap her fingers around the other woman's neck, just as in her dreams. Finally, Shaw sat down across from her, keeping her eyes on Root's, and _off_ the glass of brandy that was intended for her.

 

“When I first came to you,” she paused, placing the glass down on the desk, “I had to lie about my association with Hanna and Miss Morgan in order to ensure that you'd be willing to help us. Hanna and I were involved, before she began working for Zoe, that is.

 

I was at a loss when she was murdered. You were one of the last people to speak with her, and I knew I couldn't solve her case alone. I manipulated you into helping me.”

 

Shaw furrowed her brow. Given more time, she may have figured out that Root and Hanna's affiliation was more than what it seemed. What she _didn't_ know was why it mattered now. At this point in time, this information was irrelevant. “How do you mean?”

 

“I read your file. I learned everything there was to know about you: who your parents were, where you were educated, the unit you served with in Europe, and, perhaps most important, how you dealt with the loss of your partner when you returned to the United States.” Root spun the glass laying on the desk, maybe to emphasize the point she was trying to make. Shaw continued to listen, her body becoming rigid with every word the other woman spoke. “It was not my intention to put your life in danger, and for that I apologize.

 

I also wanted to thank you,” Root raised her glass, the amber liquid swishing back and forth. Funny, it was the same color as the woman's eyes. “In the end, it was you who helped lead me to Hanna's killer.”

 

Without thinking, Shaw reached for the brandy Root had poured her. She stopped when she felt the cool glass in contrast to her warm fingertips. “You know he's dead, right?”

 

“Oh yes,” Root said. Her voice had taken on a low quality, akin to a growl. It made Shaw pause. “I'm aware.”

 

As the musician tipped the glass to her lips once again, Shaw finally noticed that the ring gleaming on her middle finger was not the iridescent gem she had worn in the past. No, Root was now wearing a ring with a stone both remarkable and unforgettable. It was the bright green emerald that belonged to Hanna Frey.

 

Shaw looked up, passed the ring and into the eyes of the woman across from her. Clouded with darkness, yet holding an air of satisfaction, Root winked as she saw the revelation in the detective's face. Root stood from the chair, gently placing the now empty tumbler onto the desk.

 

She smiled, ever the impish lips, and Shaw felt a chill crawling up her spine. “Be seeing you, Sameen.”

 

The detective watched as the woman turned and walked away, opening the office door and leaving without another word, or even a glance back. Shaw stared at the door for several minutes without moving, and it was only until she felt her chest become tight that she exhaled a breath she had been holding.

 

Sameen stared into the glass in front of her, the liquid gone completely still as she gazed inside. Shaw was shocked by what she had come to learn. Root, the mysterious, manipulative, enigma was a murderess as well. A woman who seemed so gentle when she helped Shaw in hospital, was capable of torturing and murdering a man in cold blood? Shaw may not have felt that Simmons deserved an easy death, such as the electric chair, but her opinion on the matter shifted considerably if it was indeed _Root_ who ended his life with such a meticulous effort.

 

And it was Shaw who helped her find him. She'd tried to do the right thing by bringing a criminal to justice, yet all she managed was to help lead a murderer to her victim.

 

Given Root's skill set, it was likely that she would have also made the connection between Simmons and the death of her friends. However, Shaw, having a contact at the NYPD in Joss Carter, may have had access to information that Root wouldn't have come by. She thought that her stomach would churn at the way events unfolded. Instead she was surprised by the indifference she felt.

 

She continued to look forward, eyes losing focus on the glass in front of her, smoke from her forgotten cigarette floating up from the ashtray which it sat. She waited, taking even breaths until the feelings and experiences from the last month were pushed to the back of her mind. She shut her eyes, putting all the worry, doubt, frustration, and anger into a taxi-cab in her mind. Sameen watched as it drove down a busy street, eventually she'd lose sight, and the ordeal would be nothing more than a car in the distance. Perhaps Root was hoping to control her, even after they'd parted. However, if she'd truly read her file, the musician would know that such a thing would be impossible.

 

But then, she _did_ leave a glass of brandy in front of her. Shaw scoffed, a smile turning up the corner of her lips as she once again reached for the drink, bringing it close to her lips. The aroma floated up and the detective took in the scent with a slow inhale.

 

Did sobriety matter? Did _anything_?

 

Fighting against all the crime, dishonesty, and deception that poisoned the city was pointless. At least she could enjoy herself as she went along for the ride. After the month she had endured, she definitely deserved it.

 

Sameen parted her lips and tipped the glass, emptying the brandy in a single drink. She leaned back in her chair, smile still in place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the finale was to your liking, and of course, thanks for tuning in!
> 
>  
> 
> -Two songs I wanted to use as titles that didn't work out were "That Old Black Magic" and "I Wanna Come Home to You". This one is "It can't be wrong" by Anne Shelton.  
> -The type of ring Root wears is an alexandrite, which changes color depending on what type of light it's in. The connection is meant to be drawn between her "rotating identity" and the rings changing color. The stones for the other women were chosen at random.  
> -The idea to make Root play the piano was a way to have a similarity to her using keys on a computer.  
> -Originally Root was intended to be the murderer in the story.  
> -I find that the common theme among "noir" stories is not to trust a beautiful woman, which is why Shoot does not end up together by the conclusion.


End file.
